THE HIKER

C’mon snow wind blizzard
freezing chill ice
is this all you’ve got
you frumpy old storm
with dowdy rags
nothing smart
or new
to throw about
we’ll soon know the tougher one
as you deepen your pressure
drawing polar air
just to spit in my face
familiar tactics
in the war of weather
yes, my blood still pumps
warm
my hands are not frozen
as I crawl in a snow cave
quiet and alone…
but my leg is quite broken…
please someone
help me home

COOKIE RECIPE

2 sticks unsalted butter
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups flour
pinch of salt

the KitchenAid whirs
while I warm the bowl
cold stainless steel
with my hands
gradually softening the
beating butter
cresting into peaks
between the wires of the
rotating whisk, how the sugar
sparkles like glacial snow and ice as it hits the butter
then vanishes dissolves and creams
now the egg’s yellow eye and clear it’s a little
soupy in here, and the aroma of vanilla
that hit of alcohol just under the nose
then a splash into batter
(none for me, all for you!)
no cookie is complete without this extract
that I absolutely never ever measure!
then level off the first cup of flour
dumped in with a explosion of powder
rising into a dusty cloud
it always happens
that way, beat it in, scrape it down
the sticky sides with my old rubber spatula, then the
second cup of King Arthur, poof
there it goes right over the toaster this time
(sometimes it hits the stove and my apron,
like soft artillery fire)
the pinch of salt is just that
silly little measurement precisely non-quantified, I toss it in, and combine
until this batter looks right,
but darned if I can explain it,
now hide the dough in the fridge
(no one must taste it!)
till it’s stiff and chilled
then cut out shapes
arrange in formation on aluminum sheets
my little army
set oven to 350 and bake…

THE KNIGHTS

In the thunder and hell of it all
hardly anything happened
that dispute
a simple misunderstanding
rocked our anger to the core
as though protected by
medieval helms swords and shields
with smiles plastered
to our faces
baring teeth
ready to shred and tear
in mock conciliation
to the other’s demands
we finally tapped each other
on the shoulder
and pushed off.

THE COMPLAINT

Mail addressed to
that old man
down the end of our street
keeps coming to our box
my husband can’t
take the time you know
to look through all this mail
throws most of it away
the letters to
that old man
down the end of our street
you people
here
here at the post office
you people need to do something
about this mail
addressed to
that old man
down the end of our street
we keep getting his mail
and throwing it away

PANIC BUTTON

what car alarm
is that me
in this parking lot
hitting the panic button
not once
but twice
now fumbling for the keys
and the electronic release
to this locked door
so I can flee
from all of them now
pretending not
to see