Vagabonds Wife

great granny was a vagabonds wife,
and grandmother was the same.
mother tried real hard to be,
but it didn't work out in the end.

i'm speaking now to women about,
who think they are ready to try.
a life that makes no since to the head,
a life with a vagabond in your bed.

first there are the logistical things;
how to live out of a sack,
with perpetual lack,
and not looking back.

then there are the practical things;
making makeshift door mats,
where to hang your hats,
how to keep away rats.

for a decade or so,
you will be bothered with where you go.
though as time slips by,
you will learn to follow without a sigh.

days start to seem shorter,
though cold not much colder.
an end can seem far
when you don't know how happy you are.

i can't imagine a life other then this,
though i never thought much of eternal bliss.
you might think you can change him, or find compromise.
let me just stop you, let me advise:

do not be a vagabond's wife
less you love the vagabond's life.
you may well love him more then you dare,
but i promise you'll soon rather have a reclining chair.

The Bridges

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
The man has secrets that only you may hear

He can tell you how to climb the strongest bridge in all this city
And show you how to love atop the great arch of the Brooklyn

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
Be alone with the man who has the keys

To service doors that keep the Queensboro out of reach
And rif-raf off the the Williamsburg's steep

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
So you can see what it will take to claim this city as your own

The man waits inside the spheres of the Manhattan
He will give you what you never knew you'd need

That shadow that you carry holds its homeland
If you won't send it out to coffee for an hour,
I doubt that you will ever see escape.

I'm Late To An Appointment

I'm late to an appointment,
An interview of sorts.
With a fellow you may know of,
Known as "Time" to most of us.

A Craigeslist post that caught my eye,
"Time's assistant, needed sourly!"
Stranger yet was typed in bold:
"Only serious candidates implore me."

I tried sending my interest with hast,
Had it written up nice, proof read it twice.
Yet, Time responded before it was sent.
"Come interview in an hour, I'll be at Trump Tower."

So I've scurried and scampered to catch the train,
Resume in hand, and my shirt without stains.
Despite having heard stories that Time was insane,
I'm excited to meet him on Trump Tower Lane.

In the gold plated lobby, a man asks me my folly.
In my hurry I ignore his inquiry, asking:
"For the price of a dime, would you send me to Time?"
He looks away wisely, refusing to guide me.

From a woman with a cane, I ask direction to Trump Tower Lane
She points to the ceiling and states, rather unfeeling:
"Vertically walk, horizontally talk, and try not to follow the side walk chalk."
This woman is crazy, I quickly surmise, deciding she's telling all sorts of lies.

So I exit the lobby to search for a sign, an arrow, or the end of a line.
Outside all that I find is a youth, drawing chalk pictures on a shoe shines booth.
"Has Time been through?" I ask, not knowing what else to do. Responds the youth:
"Yes, of course, a moment ago. Though now he's off to a matinee show."

O, dear, I think I need a drink.

(to be continued)