You’ll be sorry for this. I promise you Maggie. 

Maybe, she said. But you need to meet people. Socialize. Converse. 

I thought that’s what suicide hotlines were for. 

You’re a hoot, Maggie said. A real yuk-yuk machine. Look, it’s only one dinner. Besides, Ernie’s nice. 

Ernie. I shuddered. Most people, I guess, think of Ernie and Bert. But I’m a big Who fan so I think of “Tommy” and his slimy, lecherous uncle, Ernie. 

I said to myself, I’ll do it for Maggie. But as soon as I can, I’m aborting this mission. Amscraying. Vamoosing. I’m drowning this kitten. 

That night, I met Ernie at L’Aubergine. We sat in a booth, I tore breadsticks apart. Made little animals, monkeys, giraffes. 

So, Ernie said. Maggie tells me you live with your parents. 

Yes, I replied. I take care of my folks. Feed ‘em sometimes. Hose down their cages. 

He let that pass. 

They’re elderly, I guess. 

Not really, I said. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. 

Ernie pretended to study the menu. I started humming an old Who song. I was building a Stonehenge with wrapped pats of butter when Ernie looked up and said, now I’m a farmer. 

I couldn’t believe it. Excuse me? I said. 

The song you’re humming. “Now I’m a Farmer”. The Who’s “Odds and Sods” album. Studio out takes, ‘74. 

Easy there, girl, I told myself. Could be a fluke. I decided to test him. 

“Pictures of Lily”. What album was it on. 

“Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy.” 

“Live at Leeds”. Eddie Cochran song. 

Without missing a beat, he said “Summertime Blues.” 

I thought for a moment. Looked him square in the eye. 

What was the B-side of “I Can’t Explain.” 

Like a shot came the answer “Bald Headed Woman.” 

Maggie was right. He was a nice guy. And a real Who fan, I was totally smitten. 

Sadly though, there’s no second chance for a first impression. Ernie took me home, shook my hand at the door. About twenty minutes later, I heard the phone ring. 

Through her teeth, Maggie said, you were right. I am sorry. 

I told ya so, Mags. 

You’re an idiot, she said. 

I know, Maggie. I know.

I dreamed one night 
of a field of violets,
under a golden sky.

The flowers 
glistened with dew,
like they were covered 
in sugar crystals.

The next morning,
early,
a straight-line storm 
hit our city.

The sky turned deep yellow.

Trees were splintered 
on the ground,
and homes 
I passed by all my life,
and thought, one day.

The power was out 
for a week,
in temperatures 
over a hundred.

Seven people died.

I never dream 
of violets anymore.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Winter once was without perimeter

a month-less time until March and the Ides

when things with fur woke and made more things with fur

January and February were later additions

named for the gods we also invented

but we live now in a season-less time

there are less things with fur and the stars are all darker

the trees look away because we break their hearts

and we invent gods that will fit in our pocket.