Two Poems

What the Room Told Me

The blowing of a curtain filters
twilight in a dim scream,

ceiling fan spins regardless,
its rhythm the only crutch to lean on.

Something's not right about the lamp
on the bedside table;

it flickers--two for yes, one for no,
but the questions are all mixed up.

Under the blanket, where it's safe
and warm, a tiny paddle boat

rounds the point, looking
for the lighthouse beam.

A Meeting of Sorts

Another night in front
of the unblinking eye,

my left ear straining
to hear the goings-on

outside the half shut
window.

The neighbor's dog may be curled up
against the fence at this very moment.

Soon he might even bark. I'll picture
him there then,

head on paws, licking the cold concrete,
straining to hear the shuffle

of his master's feet
with his deaf right ear.