The gull and the salad

A gull landed softly on the concrete as I arrived.
It stared at me intently, then flew a bit away.
I wondered what it wanted
so far from the bay.

Under my car was a salad
Packed tightly with dressing inside
I flipped it over
And I was no longer mystified

I’m hungry, gull said, and I know what you can do
Use your hands on the plastic
Then bid me adieu

I pried open the prize, and set the packets aside,
then set it gently on its makeshift table.
I locked my car, and headed to BART,
hoping to look up as soon as I was able.

I was grateful, you see, to be of service,
to the gull far from home, looking for breakfast.
As I got to the train, I looked up its way,
but could not see the gull
and its salad buffet.






I am breaking your heart


I sit with blood, and I am tender.
I really see the moon tonight; half out, half dark.
I keep the glass door closed, though I want it open.
I am cold, and I ache.

I know this will be another night she kicks me,
my long-legged dog who sheds too much and insists on sharing my bed.
Her dreams and her heat will make me throw off my socks and sweatshirt, or fall out and move to the other other side.

But I’ve gotten used to her,
this shared intimacy with no strings and no words.
I’ve gotten used to her long body, and
she is comforting.

And when she is gone, she will be gone. I don’t usually grieve too long.

My friend says that people come and go,
that who is in your life always changes.

I watched my old friend cross a city street the other day,
I stared at him begging him to see me.
But he’s all up in his own head,
so I hung my own and kept walking.

The single butterfly, the baby dragonfly.
So tender when they appear, their wings are
like silent breaths, tears.
They visit, then disappear.