Morning Fog, Cedar Lakes

Second day of the writers’ conference

starts beneath a silvery lens

of metaphor, obscuring vision, meaning.

I could leave my room &

walk into a poem

written by an artist with honeyed lips &

a club for a brush. I must drive

around the loop to the dining hall

for sustenance: a boiled egg, a biscuit.

First though, in my emptiness,

I fill myself with the lovely air,

or try. Perhaps there is

no message here. I should ask

the nearest stranger for directions.

Cigarettes at Cedar Lakes

I’ve got you circled, she says,

when she recognizes the name

on my noose of a lanyard.

She means the reading tomorrow

or one of the two workshops

I’ll be leading, but for a moment,

my skin warms more subtly

than in the humid, squeezing air.

We’re two outsiders

standing by the assembly hall,

smoking our cares into coughs.

You always meet the coolest people

at times likes this, I say,

describing those of us escaping

tyranny of the indoor world,

its quitters, its has-beens, &

the rest; describing her &

describing me—this intimate

relationship not lasting past

five minutes under sunlight.

We settle in for the short haul,

sharing our love in gray clouds

of breath before one of us

says, Nice to meet you.

I have to go cool down.

Showdown

The raccoon is out early today,

discrete in leaves beneath the border fence,

dirty-diamond head pointing toward me,

watching to be sure I’m part of the calm,

not a hunter, not a crazed father

who screeches obscenities from the doorway.

Peace exists for one like me

with my history of anxious hours.

Time stalls into a hazy light

spotting a little face staring back.

Two gunfighters squaring off,

we know neither can outdraw the other.

My lone menacing weapon is my size;

I carry no firearm with me, only fire.