April 11: poem about an object
The Rock at the Bottom of My Purse
The way it sits in the palm of my hand
smooth-polished by some unknown
water source, tumbled by river or ocean
to become this talisman, this totem,
this reminder to be patient. The way
it falls accidently into my fingers
when I search for lipgloss or a pen
keeps me mindful of small miracles.
April 10: poem about Friday
The days of the week are of no consequence.
Friday, Wednesday, Monday all the same to me.
What day is this? I ask. You say it’s Sunday.
Ah! No work today!
April 9: a memory
One stolen night
twenty years ago:
rain on the windshield
Tito Puente on the radio
3 am patty melt at Denny’s.
Conjured up at will
it sustains an idea:
Love on the run.