A Prayer for the Tentative

They name God the source 
of light, of love, 
of all that rose before
and will come after.
They, who would reduce 
all mystery to a syllable.

Absent the absolute,
may you, the tentative,
find sustenance in glimpses,
in things less defined, 
in earthly in-betweens.
The holy, in other words.

Silverdale Costco

In my apocalyptic fantasy,
we peel out of your driveway
and speed north from Bainbridge 
on the 305. We slalom the undead 
along the Agate Passage bridge.
Speed through the red light
in front of the Clearwater Casino.
Wonder if the zombies are playing 
blackjack tonight. Blink-blink past
Poulsbo. Then south on Highway 3.
We fly down the Kitsap Peninsula, 
strewn now with burned-out wrecks 
that never had a chance. Not us! 
Not today, baby! Love can make 
a kingdom out of any lifeless place, 
even the Costco in Silverdale. 
We skid into the parking lot and sprint 
for the entrance, zombies on our ass. 
In my fantasy, we slam the door in time,
securing bounty in a world of rot.

Ode to 'Ode to Joy'

My 10-year-old son is practicing 
"Ode to Joy" and the notes march 
orderly enough at first, but then 
detach and drift to the dark corners 
of my apartment. I'm half-listening,
thinking about someone who's left me.
It's work, this life. Against detachment.
I get up, sweep the notes into a dust pan, 
and pour them back into his clarinet. 
My son smiles. "I may have to fake it 
at the Christmas pageant tomorrow." 
Sometimes you do. I tap his chest 
and tell him not to worry, I tell him
that the song is there inside.

I don't know anything about music, 
but I do have an ear for happiness. 
I know it runs like an electric wire 
down through time. I know it hums in us, 
even when we cannot hear it, even when 
we are its deaf conductors.

At the Swimming Pool

Conversation splashes across the pool.  
"Who's a good girl?" sings a father 
to the baby held aloft.

"If we make it that long," 
joke the old couple 
making next-year plans.

"Marco," calls a boy. "Marco. ..."
Then, the giggled "Polo"
pulls him forward. 

Words like breath as we swim.

Marco ... Polo ...

You call "Marco" and listen.
Just the splash of water. 
You dive ahead, lunge blind,
thrash. You try so hard  
to connect. You wait, 
breathing hard. 
You wait. 
You wait.


Polo.

Last Day in Scotland

You left so much undone. 
The closest you got to the castle
was a Royal Mile tee-shirt shop.
Some essential Scottish flavor 
went untasted because you didn't 
make time for the whisky tour. 
And the Writer's Museum. Wasn't that 
supposed to be your first stop?
Hell, you couldn't even make it 
out of Edinburgh. Now all you have 
is one thin day to get it right.
You hold your latte as if awaiting 
benediction. 

But who's to say 
you aren't (mmm that milky warmth 
is good) receiving it right now? 
The window of the rented flat 
is open to the morning. Rain 
drifts in. Hello. Chants and drumbeats 
from the cobbled street's parade
alight like birds. Good morning. 
What is it you should do? 
What is it you should ever do?
Get up. Go out the door. Receive 
the day in friendship. A voice
is calling you. She says let's go.

Riding a Bicycle in a Suit of Armor

Riding a bicycle in a suit of armor
is still riding, I tell myself, and better
than some other pursuits -- like climbing
and surfing and love -- that I abandoned 
after simple slips submerged me 
in forces I could not control. 
Now my life is people passing on the left. 
I do not mind. I do not mind. I ...
I keep my helmet visor down and swelter 
in this metal. But I'm safe if I should fall.