Selected Poems
Rhythm, who could ask for anything more?
When I write poems, she dances with a
spirit that runs red on our kitchen stage.
She hits the heights above the hard wood
practice, rehearsing, again. Turn the page.
Taking it from the top and past the break
she edits out steps between butter notes.
She drops new moves to the mirrored wall
and leaves more on the floor, in the hall.
No move a mistake, when the next can fix.
Her improv free style is tight and trimmed
Four times around, neat. Exactly 3 minutes
few seconds, matches her new favorite song.