For what it's worth

“The waitress looks at my face/ as if it were a small tip.” –Stephen Dunn


The dropped dishes
shatter across her nerves
like the jangle of loose change
in her overcoat pocket.

“What am I worth?
Whatever pennies
you haven’t found a use for?
Pocket lint?
Gum wrappers?

Someone once
left me chocolate coins
for a tip.
He thought it was cute.

Tell me this:
will the twelve cents
left over
from the purchase of a lottery ticket
pay for the poems
I didn’t have time to write
and all they might’ve done?

You’ll go home
to your empty house
your ambivalent wife
your old dog
…and you’ll think
about how I smiled
when I poured your coffee.

Then you’ll know
that was the best part of your day

just like I did
when I grinned,
thanked you,
and pocketed your arrogance.”

Headlines

My little sister won’t look me in the eye.
She knows
she’s wearing too much makeup
and I know
telling her won’t help.

My mother sits next to the stove,
shaking her newspaper out
over weary feet.
She sighs,
and my eyes avoid the headlines.

There’s a strange sound
behind me in the dining room.
I turn, just a little.
The cat sits on the table
choking on the lily petals
fallen from the centerpiece.

The sound makes me sick.
My throat tight,
I want to ask-
“Who’s responsible?”

My mother turns a page
and stares at me
above the smeared newsprint.

Young Girl Abducted

“What, hun?”

3 Teens Killed in Car Accident

I can’t quite speak.

54 Lives Claimed in South American Earthquake

My voice is quiet.
Definitely quieter than those headlines.

“Who’s responsible?”


The cat gags again
and my mother looks confused.

“For what, dear?”

I can explain (revised)

It’s dark, quiet,
dusty warm
amid the ropes and curtains.
My bare feet are soothed
by the dirty boards beneath them.

Their voices echo
from the bright lights
filling the cavernous space before me
with clichés
and the old velvet surrounds me
holds me upright
as my vision blurs.

It is still, again
and I close my eyes against the dark, feeling
the shifting of your weight
on the boards beside me
through the bottoms of my toes.

I clear my throat
of stage-dust
and unspoken words.
My chest clenches
and my breath catches in a way
that has nothing to do
with the backstage heat
…and everything to do
with impending explanation.

“I know it; I know it all.
I won’t presume…
that is,
you should know
I’m grateful.

I mean,
what I’m trying to say
is that your laughter
brought back my hope for someday
and I know
you’ll never understand
how much this means
or why my lips tremble
during curtain call
…but I’m grateful.”

Your fingers extend,
brush past my arm:
the only explanation
I’m likely to get.