Plunder

After winter rain 
the puddles that remain
divvying up the sky  

Museum Pieces

Jupiter struck
in bronze — the thunderbolt 
long gone 

Aphrodite’s hands
always so full 
of herself 
 
The eyes 
in the Secutor’s helmet 
still wide 

Dionysus 
his grapes 
intact

Long Distance

Playing telephone 
my son holding his hand 
in a different shape 

False Advertising

The raven 
on my Poe Museum highball 
flitting 

Sheep’s Clothing

Stray clouds 
somewhere a propeller 
growling

Tribute

After Bob Weir died 
the crickets playing long
into the night

Spelling Bee

The eraser 
on my number two pencil 
as I write this