Untitled

He reads the tracks of my tires
in the snow.
Deciphering the hieroglyphs;
a simple acrostic of lines.
It’s nice to know I’m defined
by the pattern of my tread.
Inside, he said the writing on his wall
holds a pattern,
as stars in the galaxy.
He will make sense of this Babel,
while I stand by the door
wanting to leave.
How can I deceive him into thinking
I have somewhere else to be?
He had been my universe,
but that was long ago
and our orbits
no longer converge.

Untitled #2

On Greenwich Avenue,
Fred festooned a fir with lights.
“Jesus,” he said. “It just ain’t right.
I bought this string at CVS
and it’s already broke.
This Christmas stuff’s for the birds.
Man, it’s a joke.
I got no wife and my whole life’s changed.”
But when I shook his hand,
the blue lights lit.
“Holy shit!” he said. “It’s a miracle.”
And we stood,
bathed in cerulean light.