we’ve done it online, offline over the line, and so many times, crossed the line in pictures and pinups in person and innuendo in moments of fleshy crimes with eyes like knives and licks like beasts awaiting fresh meat, we men, long ago, declared women, the fairest prey how fearless the ones that meet our eyes , as others offer the cold indifferent look-away and hold a breath to ready their tongues if our rudeness arises, before some greater self-defense is required, but

they call it a river, this part-time creek and full-time flood channel with enough occasional water to grow an un-mowed lawn sprinkled with creosote bushes, castor bean plants, cattails and nice-looking Palo Verde tree until a day last December when a bulldozer scraped it flat - like a chunk of skin ripped away ground squirrels and rabbits came out of their deepest dens to see the plowed stew of sand and rock, the year’s harvest gone coyotes quickly lost the hunter’s cove

now I know why grannies’ rock by the fire to crochet and grandpas’ hands cling to steaming mugs of coffee my fingers would cry out, but without a voice, they merely groan as I flex them on this cold cloudy morning my first poem today will have to wait for something warm to heat my knuckles so pen on paper might create friction and start a small fire while granny hooks the yarn and grandpa stares out the window On days like this, how can the sun not know that it’s time