Submerged in dishwater, my hands disappear.
In the constant rush of noise, my words disappear.
I sit at my desk for hours until my legs vanish.
My son walks away and my arms disappear.
I'm lighter than helium.
The front door opens and I waft outside.
How can I possibly have any effect
when I'm spread so thin? But I do:
I move the leaves when I push through them,
rustle in a woman's skirt, make an old man turn his head
and remember something silky and wonderful
when I whisper in his ear.
I am a recently retired, late middle-aged man living with my wife and some kind of loveable Terrier mutt, who looks like a cross between Bernie Sanders and a loofah. We are all fine and comfortable in an old house in Northeast Portland, Oregon. Although I was first captured by poetry (reading and writing it) in childhood, it was only upon reaching my mid-fifties that I put any effort into submitting my work. In the past few years I have been published in the North American Review, The Sun, Poet Lore, Pulp Literature, and The Rhysling Anthology, among others. My hobbies include cheering for my favorite roller derby team (the Break Neck Betties), and riding the roller coaster of victory and failure by following the Chicago Cubs.