somewhere above all the tables’ umbrellas, linked in an understory of fabric   below the canopy of a pair of giant bougainvillea   within the confusion of their twisted woody vines   and mingling with the sounds of silverware rudely bumping ceramic plates, patron chatter and music chosen for mastication,   I hear the noisiest bickering of sparrows, diving for crumbs or anticipating crumb sympathy   meaning   at least one family is delighted they came here for breakfast

I’ve met outgoing hummingbirds so there have to be shy lions   I’ve seen daring dragonflies so scared squirrels must be out there   my two dogs couldn’t be more different - think Chris Farley and just deceased Queen Elizabeth   and haven’t we’ve all had a car whose idiosyncrasies drove us crazy and another one, a face in a sweet memory, we’ll miss?   what in life doesn’t have a personality?   even a property tax bill arrives all serious and business-like, a parent reminding y

I don’t live the way my poems are laid out   off paper I struggle like everyone to keep my head above the mud, fall, crawl and cry out when things don’t go my way   I extract myself when I lift   a prized poem which I ‘ll clean before adding a show ready polish   I refine my art before it’s staged   my life hides the scars you’ll rarely see