My Peninsula

My friends frown at me and say
that I cannot be an island.
And I counter,
that perhaps I am not an island
But a peninsula,
whose inhabitants have erected a towering gray stone wall
to separate it from the rest of the coast
and ward off any unwelcome visitors.

Then I watch apprehensively,
as they work through the day,
And into the night,
finally lighting bonfires along the coast,
until they have built a fleet of tiny seafaring canoes.
And like curious island natives,
they board their boats,
And paddle around my fortifications,
climb over my ramparts,
and venture into the interior of my peninsula,
whether they are welcome or not.

Unprotected

I sat on the operating table, waiting for the doctor to begin,
protected only by a thin, white hospital gown.
He came in followed by a trail of assistants, and they circled me
preparing for the operation.
And as I sat there watching them test the silver needle
that eventually they would plunge into my spine,
I thought to myself,
People need more than just a thin white hospital gown.

Family Portrait

In my mother’s house,
Up three flights of solid oak stairs,
In a dark corner of the attic,
At the bottom of a cardboard box,
Sits our family photo album.
On the first page there is one picture,
The only picture in the album,
Of my mother, my father, and me.
My grandparents took it
When they gave us the book.

We’re in our living room,
Framed by the light from large bay windows.
My mother is on the left,
With her head turned away,
And her hand in front of her face.
My father is on the right,
With his eyes just slightly averted,
Starting at a clock on the wall.
And I’m in the middle of it all,
Looking straight at the camera
With my eyebrows raised,
And my mouth slightly open,
Like I’m trying to apologize,
Before I turn away too.

The Poet Luminary

I went to a poetry reading yesterday,
But please,
Don’t furrow your brow,
Squint your eyes
And make judgments.
If you will simply refer to one of the fine magazines
That can be purchased at your local grocery store
You will see that the cultural gurus
Of Cosmo, Vibe, and Vanity Fair,
Who write their meaningful articles
On fashion, celebrities, and how to please your man
Say it is ok for me to have a sensitive side.

I watched the reading from a balcony,
Applauding just a bit patronizingly,
Like Jack Nicholson or Robert Deniro would at a high school play.
Because I knew that none of the poems will ever have real notoriety
Gracing the pages of magazines like Maxim.

But then at the end of the reading,
Just as I was preparing to leave,
There was an impromptu question and answer session,
Like when Barbara Walters grilled Robert Downey Jr.
About his latest drinking binge.

But the interviewer was nothing like Barbara.
And he even pronounced his R’s.
He was a middle-aged man,
A poetry professor,
Wearing a sleek black leather jacket,
Obviously trying to compensate for a small bald spot.

And the poet being interviewed was much older,
Wearing a tan sports jacket that would do Andy Rooney proud
And a noggin like Patrick Stewart’s.
And as the two babbled on about poetry,
Their voices bouncing aimlessly off the walls,
I sat in the balcony in a state of epiphany.

A link between us had formed,
Like the florescent lights,
That connect Kathy Griffith to Whoopi Goldberg and Louie Anderson
On the Hollywood Squares.
In these men I could see future incarnations of myself,
Glimmers and glimpses of how my life will unfold.
How I will become the first poet with a weekly column
In Playboy,
Shortly after I settle down in rustic cabin
In Palm Springs.
How I will miss my son’s birth
So I can rattle off witty lines
at the Emmy Awards.
How I will eventually cheat on my wife with a younger woman,
Then tell the sad story of how she left me
On the Tonight Show with Seth Green.

How much later I will become a recluse,
Only making public appearances in full makeup.
How finally I will lie dying in a hospital,
With only an orderly to keep me company,
Watching re-runs of my television appearances.
And with my last breath,
Like Orson Wells in Citizen Kane,
I will gasp my only regret.
Rogaine.