Haiku 47

A wheel, broken but not so you would notice dazzles travelers

Pullman porter sits open-handed and still his eyes, twin spirals

Solitary breath in the fetid men’s room stink doctors long gone

A branch’s shadow wavers at 3 am over the dead lamp

The politician says it isn’t either/or as I hide from the storm

One dead movie star’s life story, tossed on the lawn to rot with spring rain

Afternoon squall fills the shot glasses left out on the picnic bench

Those muddy clothes thrown off by the universe …who’ll stack the laundry?

Again, that siren mixed with the church band’s cymbal Friday afternoon

And it’s one wet crunch as though the sidewalk outside broke half a molar

On this half-moon night a spider, too small for the eye rests in silver

The tree awaits an axe with its same indifference to the soldier’s foot

Two old lovers, two Queen Anne buses–talk? But what would I say?

“Cosmic Energy” Should be measured like all else let’s stay sensible

“I’m okay, all right,” weak voice beneath the blanket– I don’t see his face