Little short poems that live in my notebooks

The literary world, so full of epics and 40-line free verse and fat sestinas, doesn’t seem to have much room for little short poems. So these babies don’t get out much. It’s okay, little poems–don’t be scared.

* * *

Call

The dog’s note, a word.

We know his bark at night

like your daughter’s voice on the phone

saying she’s fine, but can she come over,

a stranger laughing behind her,

can she have dinner,

can she please come home.

* * *

Change

Her laugh

like a coin

in the laundry dryer

of your heart—

seven more minutes

warm,

maybe eight.

* * *

Evening, July

The cat slides two paws

under the screen door. Outside,

wind scratches the grass.

* * *

Tag

She writes goodbye on her nametag,

avoiding that middle step

of breakfasts at the window

and nights on the steel chairs

of the hospital. She says

it was nice to know you,

fixes her lipstick

in the smooth face

of a steak knife.

* * *

Horse Dreams

ten years old

Pinto, paint,

apple-drop gray,

red roan, tunnel black,

stone-eyed

Assyrian chargers,

then a neck,

a river-run shoulder, gone

back to the night

where all the horses sleep,

where I keep

a small saddle.