There will be a day, I think, I guess, I know,
when the fires of the flesh bank and burn low.
One day the fireworks will end.
On that day lets be friends.
I would rather marvel at the lines of your face,
hear your stories, and let my heart race
to the smell of you, and the way you fit
all my curves and bulges when we sit
and watch movies and sip wine from the bottle.

So maybe our hackles don't raise anymore.
Less the heavy breathing and more the s'mores.
I guess it comes down to the end of wanting to run.
You have long been my friend and at times the one
who shared a sense of the darkness that seems to hover
at the edges of the day, and offer if not sunshine, cover.
There is something to be said for knowing sanctuary
is familiarity and routine and sameness; you know; ordinary.
Watching movies, drinking from the same bottle of wine.

I duck under a guillotine
every time I enter a bar.
I know the blade is sharp,
the trigger almost invisible.
Walked into a thousand dives
from Michigan to Thailand,
Alaska to Tijuana.
Once the gloom leaves the eyes
the rooms look familiar.
Threats and conquests
taken in one glance,
juke box, bathroom, back door
the next.

Now I'm older and wiser,
I tell myself,
better at getting along.
I know every day has its own
wicked blade.
Whispering names,
humming to itself.
Inanimate, cold,
a tool of time.
Makes the surprise of each day
joyful.

Memorial Day

They brought a Hero home today.
The brass of his casket was polished,
the flag that covered it crisp and new.
The Honor Guard carried him
past planes,family, Color Guard.
Their shoes were as black
as the storm-ridden May sky.
Forty Harley's shouted their pride,
the Patriot's Guard Riders pulled
off the tarmac, the hearse close behind.
Me,old sailor, old cabbie,
saluting the procession,
eyes suddenly tearing,
tears unnoticed.