She’ll Cross That Street When She Comes to It

Crossing bridges
never figured in
for her;
they were always burnt
before she got there,

but she’s a street-crosser
from way back,
having come to streets
she has to cross
(against the light,

no crossing guard)
all the damn time
since forever;
heroic, or distracted,
or whatever (depends),

doing what she should,
“should” implying
a moral obligation
to do whatever it is;
cross the next street,

no doubt;

and when she does
(and she will, because
that’s what she does)
it will be
a star-crossed street

because she’s a star;
a sometime-falling star
I was lucky enough
to wish on.

She’s good for wishes;

and for holding hands
while crossing
star-crossed streets.

On Reprobation

She gets up late
from reprobating,
takes the cake—
she’s always taking
someone else’s cake, but hey—
they’ll get a piece; she’s not stingy,
just flirt ’em, hurt ’em, dirt ’em bingey,

on cakes,
and on bakers,
and on boys.
She stays up late
recidivating, but
her timing’s great,
so she’s not grating

for however long “awhile” is,
just now, with these exact people;
but she knows her welcome’s always leaking,
drop by drop by drop,
top to bottom to floor;
but, with her great grate-timing,
she always runs out before it all runs out.

But she ran out on me because
she couldn’t wear her welcome out,
and boy, she was going like hell.
I know it’s pointless chasing,
but my brakes went out
the day we met,
and I’m going downhill.

You start to slide, and just keep…skidding.

No, I’m kidding—you keep sliding.
You can pull out of a skid,
but “slide” implies no traction,
and that’s me to a T—no traction;

no crash yet either,
but my windshield’s
filling up fast
with on-coming her.

I Wish

she’s lean,
loose jeans
hung on hip bones,
bell-bottoms frayed
around bare feet,
tee shirt tied up, neat navel;
messy bun…
coming undone…

she pulls the pins,
drops the bun,
flares the hair,
and shreds me
with a smile that says,
“you wish”