Answered Prayers

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Everyone is so sad these days

about the general shittiness of things—

how we neglect

and carelessly destroy

the world and each other

in small ways

in big ways.

Yet there are mornings we rise

to discover that

overnight the rain 

has glazed the streets

for the summer sun to bake the day

like fresh bread.

People stream into the streets

to ply their trades:

the scent of cinnamon buns

sweetens my walk to work;

a policeman blows his whistle

and waves traffic through;

above us,

welders stitch I-beams together

with birthday sparklers

to shape a bridge;

below,

street crews in orange jumpers

connect underground pipes

so that I need only 

press a park fountain button

when I am thirsty.

The music is undeniable—

one movement

after another,

like so many daily prayers 

answered

we barely notice.

The rhythm is poignant,

intervals of internal 

sadness

while outside the celebration

never stops.

The Opening Heart

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starts with a walk

around the block

alone, within,

the in–out breath

rhythm of soles on pavement

scent of flowering trees

cut grass, fallen leaves

and a turn into the park

along the path

black birds circling overhead,

landing like exclamation marks

squirrels with comma tails

scurrying for scraps

a dog walker tugs the leash

a courtesy move to let me by

ricochet of playground laughter,

a cry and consolation

a child lifted feather-light

sips a parabola of water

a frisbee disc

slices the field’s plane

balls being batted back

over tennis court nets

thoughts float through

the heightened mind like wisps—

so much shared under this sky

and not a word.

Keboard Slips

I wonder if keyboard s slips an\re similar to Fru7edians slips if thgey arerveal somethinbg soubconsc cioius of just carelessness in the is world we whwere we are all all multi-=taskikng doing too muchn overwhlemed by tjhe with responsiobiolitierts and tasked outsourchiomng critical information no thinking running everybgting through spell check becaUSE EVEYRHITBNG IS HAPPENING SO FAST AND THE MIOND AND THE HANDS WERE NOT MADE FOR THIS KIND OF SPEED AND THEN FIUNGERS SLKIP ALL OVER THE KEYBOEARD, HITTING BIUTTONS WE VE NEVER YINBTENDED  to got to hiot and we don;t even bother to rereard or reconsoder or deliberate and would rathje rhavre the machines do ith fpor us because we still want perfection or at leats the appearance of perfectiopn and efficiency but lets face it what s done is done theres no going back this klife is one draft and frankly im okay with the mistakes because it m,akes me feel like there is a trace of humanity left  

The Supreme Court

Their arguments over the written word,

Mean one thing today, another tomorrow,

They hold court, high up on their bench, 

Black-robed Inquisitors, 

Hacking away at language with mallet and chisel,

To shape something, intended or not - 

Or like cloaked wizards casting Latinate spells,

Caped stage magicians, now you see it, now you don't,  

Thieving pickpockets who've studied the technique,

Practiced the sleight of hand, 

To lift your wallet and ID without you even feeling it.   

No Longer

Government that no longer governs.

Leaders who no longer lead.

Politicians who no longer make policy.

Representatives who no longer represent.

Legislators who no longer legislate.

Laws that no longer make sense.

Courts that no longer adjudicate.

Judges who no longer impartially judge.

Police who no longer protect.

Borders that no longer secure.

Institutions that no longer serve.

Universities that no longer educate.

Professors who no longer teach.

Advisors who no longer have expertise.

Doctors who no longer heal.

Media that no longer reports.

Churchgoers who no longer worship.

Clergy who no longer believe.

Companies that no longer make product.

Jobs that no longer provide a living.

Artists who no longer create.

Families who no longer raise children.

Citizens who no longer vote.

People who no longer care.

And because I never felt important enough

And because I never felt important enough

To my parents,

Or to my friends,

Or to my lovers,

Or to my spouse,

Or to my children,

Or to my customers and followers,

Let me feel important enough

O Lord

To you. 

P.S.

Sometimes it's sudden, 

without warning,

sometimes it's in view,

a tape snap

at the finish line.

Sometimes by accident,

negligence, incompetence.

Sometimes by intent.

Technical—pilot error,

gravity taking hold of helpless

passengers yanked

back to the ground.

Targeted 

as a drone strike.

Sometimes it's public, 

a journalist's beheading for the cameras.

Sometimes private, 

a back-alley knife

through the ribs,

a club to the back

of the skull.

Usually it's cruelly intimate, 

a surrounded hospital bed, 

watching, waiting,

signing off

after Sincerely, 

Yours Truly,

As Always,

Best Regards,

P.S.

of chronic, unceasing pain,

tumors bloomed in flesh

like mushrooms 

in damp rotting wood,

hands and legs useless

as stone,

brain morphine-addled,

faces like bats flitting

in a dark tunnel —

death is 

a torchlight

for the only way out.

October

 On this day (and every day) I remember my mother Arleen Solomon Rotchin z'l with a poem.