Your Remaining Minutes
What advantage lies in certainty of doom?
It didn’t make you love me more, or longer
To know that we were running out of room:
In fact it just made all the stronger
Your need to sample joy in other flavors.
We owe ourselves, each one, to discover
Those pieces of the world our being savors
Most, in work, and art, and place, and lover,
In the most efficient way. I get it now.
Too late I see that time is running late.
You’re looking at your phone: “Already? Wow!
There’s someone coming by for me at eight.”
I wish I could, but nothing’s harder than
Adding minutes to this Provider’s plan.
The Tourist
The campanile on the cemetery hill is ringing the Ave Maria.
Too bad you’re not Catholic, or Christian, or religious, or human.
The women in this town have put up with so much shit,
They aren’t impressed by sympathetic tourists
Like you. Try the famous local dish, sir, a sort of meatball made of fish,
Then go and tweet about it from home.
The Garden of Eaton 
He said goodbye to all that
suffered by we simple men,
Took his wife, paper and pens
to an Island where rhymes kissed by gods and godesses unknown wash up out of the sea, wait patiently under a happy moon for the rare writer to come beachcombing by in search of poetry.
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