Two Poems

The Journey

I'm told this, too, is part of the journey,
but lately I feel I'm traveling
inside the trunk of a car.

These days it's hard to swallow sorrow,
and disappointment eyes me often
from the end of the bar.

Funny that we are obsessed with purity
but go on sinning nonchalantly,
like you hose down a pickup truck

or vote for an imperfect candidate,
resigned, as the lid closes,
to enjoy darkness

before the car runs out of gas,
still wishing to be swaddled
by the mother of all stars.

 

The Fawn's Breakfast

Being so young made it easier for her
to sneak past our broken fence,

but I'm alarmed how thin she looks.
Good to know there's plenty

for breakfast, and I don't mind
that she fancies to order

from our flowers' menu.
After all, she could be one of my children

when they were as young
and vulnerable as her. I hold myself

responsible for guarding her
in the absence of her parents as

she chooses leaves as if they were
hors d'oeuvres, hoping my garden

is safer than Eden, her ribs less noticeable,
my concerns far less robust.