Wednesday, August 11, 2004 8:09 PM

The water reluctantly staggered out of the shower nozzle this morning.
Tonight, the birds tweet and cluck in the back yard. Cicadas whine and crackle,
And tires give their whistling exhales from the highway.
There’s a mature pecan tree reaching over the red brick patio.
The narrow porch, red brick,
But the edge trimmed with white paint,
Skirts the back of the house in an S.
I’m sitting behind the porch steps in a corner, leaning on the screen door,
Feeling a hinge against my back,
And bittersweet,
With the last of a dark leaf wrapped cigar and some red wine.

Then, I go inside and ask , “What are you doing?”
“Nothing” my wife says. “What about you?”
“Fucking the dogs.”
“Oh, stop.” She says.
“Well, nothing sounds just too . . .” I’ve forgotten what.

Thursday, August 12, 2004 6:17 AM

The doorbell rang this morning but no one was there again,
Front or side.
Old Dr. Mims, the ghost, played his trick.
Later, I was at stool with Chogyam’s poetry open,
Thinking about it.
Then, when I sat at my desk to write,
Something passed over my toes.
I nearly dislocated my goddamn prosthetic hip
Shaking off a water bug.

Friday, August 13, 2004 6:08 AM

This is a morning when I even feel the ancient days.
I’m stiff.
But no stiffy.
When I put my arms around my wife she rolls her shoulder and whispers,
“Oh, go right just a little bit and scratch right there”.
I do. She twitches once and says, “That’s it. That’s perfect.
Thank you, honey.”
I pull her hand down to my dick and whisper, “Right there, right there.
Just scratch a little bit. Oh yeah, baby, that’s perfect! Thank you, honey.”
She pulls on me a few times, gently.
“You always want me to ride the pony in the morning before I’m awake.
Aren’t you afraid I’ll fall off?”
I smile in the dark,
Hug her again,
And unwind gingerly out of the bed.