Tik…

The clock in the living room
is of an old design,
white, round face,
block numbers one through twelve.

tik…tik…tik…tik…tik

The hands are also the simple,
traditional design,
thin, black lines
one shorter than the other.

tik…tik…tik…tik

A quartz movement marks
the time, pushing the second
hand around with an interminable,
repeating tick.

tik…tik…tik

We converse often,
the clock and I,
when the nights are still
and the world slows down.

tik…tik…

Life and love are often topics,
along with hate and death
and fear and loneliness…
subjects where we share expertise.

tik…

The dog is comforted
by the sound of my voice,
but seldom seems
to notice the clock.

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An Early Winter Morning in Atlanta

The frost on the highway medians
melts into mist at the first touch
of morning,
steam drifts up from
the sewer vents.

Graft echoes through
the streets
like the sunlight
reflecting from
the glass faced monoliths.

Underneath a marble monument
a King’s dream lies forgotten,
its hope twisted into
perverted idealism
and political catchphrases.

Suicide fences are installed
on the bridges
over the interstates,
but not on the ones over
the chattahoochee,
screwing up traffic a greater concern
than a hopeless body floating
downstream.

Some things are difficult
to notice
bumper to bumper
at eighty miles per hour.