The hurdy-gurdy man’s monkey
snatched your only dollar
and you clapped
then turned on Thomas Avenue,
and scaled the front steps of
the brownstone.
I watched a third floor silhouette
tilting a pot of tea
to one cup.
Lamp darkened like a beggar’s hope
corroded fire escape
leading up.
The next evening,
cicadas gossiped—
anxious to tell
in quivering accent
the story of
your
Judas kiss
in the visitor’s dugout
next to the neon
hum of Barb’s Burgers
Beneath a blood moon
at the deserted ball field
like a barren beach—
wind blowing red clay
waves over third base
cheered on by the leaves
of a twisted oak
Your eyes closed
cheek in his hand
night air weaving your
breaths together into a
loose tapestry
Thick hand sliding
the band off
your ponytail
releasing the bundle
of buff sea grass
down your neck
Lips
a shy soft shell
crab burying itself in the
murky depths drowning
with no rescue
swallowed instead
The ocean took
you
and the tide came back
empty
All souls
were lost
it is good
who is good
who can tell what is good
clergy wrapped in tissue robes
wine and loaf
spoiled like rotted fish
college counselor
touching your sweater too long
rubbing until his wedding ring
hung in the threads
I should have broken the car window
instead of waiting hours
in the rain until
the truck arrived and rescued
the keys
we drove to the country and made love
for the first time— guilt
soft, warm, wet
at morning every tree had
a penis and breasts
you would never be a mom
and I can’t help but think
that was my fault•••
When I’m gone,
replace me with
the moon—
its silver dust more
tempered, forgiving,
steadfast and present
than I ever was
underneath night.
When I’m gone,
seek the moon’s face,
more often than
you sought my own.
Let your tears
soften into wishes,
traded wistfully
for starlight.
— © Rick Baldwin
Countdown ignored—
tucked beneath a stranger’s quilt,
like two-for-one toasted loaves
from the mountain bakery.
We stormed the daunting future
with the resolve of a fat calico cat
on her fifteenth birthday.
Your mask, your phone,
glowing, poised for battle—
until the staggered,
slurried purr of my breathing
heralded the end.
No champagne, no confetti—
only pillow.
— ©Rick Baldwin
I release them. Fledglings
pushed from the nest,
thin-skinned and chirping.
Constantly on guard for
the cat and coyote.
Skipping from tall grass
to bush until there is
enough strength to fly
and feed alone.
They build their
nests in hidden hearts
of those who discover them
and sing sweet songs
to the ears that hear.