Finding Freedom’s Cost

“Now that there’s nothing new to risk, I’m free to…”  Tom’s thoughts stopped short.  His mental words slammed shut as an empty feeling overtook, keeping him awake, eyes darting over the darkened horizon just one more time and back to repeat the motion, again and again.   He wondered how many children the age of his son, Chris, were trying to sleep under the starlit sky.  He questioned the motives for his presence, his training, his execution of every order, just as commanded.

“Nothing new to risk…””

His third tour of duty and his fears now dissipated into numbness.  He felt more mechanical than he did human, empty, void, corroded.

“Nothing new to risk…”

He had seen life, felt it vibrate and obeyed orders to extinguish it as well.  “Now I’m free,” he instinctively thought, “nothing is new, nothing matters.”  His eyes closed to the snap of gunshots.

Caffé Borgia Saturdays

She met him again after so many years,

not enough stories, an abundance of tears.

Each telltale smile of what used to be,

emblazoned on hearts, released and now free.

This sidewalk café, espresso, sweet rolls,

were years their main fare amid Saturday’s souls.

The East Village lies, the deception, the shame

absconded each noon when their Saturdays came.

Each sip of the coffee, each bite of the roll

made the life of the other in sharing now whole.

But now lives are separate.  They reunite here

on Saturday again, each mem’ry held dear.

When once love was shared,  now rainstorms wash time,

to  remember their Saturdays – stolen moments sublime.

just passin’ through

Crumpled, old men flock on dusty sidewalks to pass time and squint their eyes at the merciless sun.
Ladies, in these parts, stay in, tend to chores, do what’s necessary.
No laughter of children to counter the whoosh of an occasional empty breeze.
Southwestern expanse stretches across a mesa-dappled horizon.
The Fareland Hotel – the only one in town – circa 1889- weeps from its cracking paisley wallpaper and creaking floorboards.
The “Stop & Go” diner flashes its gaudy fluorescent pink lights as the tired blonde waitress twirls a curl between her mauve fingernails.
Ivy tells those stories to keep these strangers entranced while she’s pouring another heavy cup of bitter coffee, simmerin’ in the pyrex pot just a bit too long.
Trickles of gossip drip from her rounded lips, a sly smile creeps along her ruby-powdered cheeks.
She picks up the change the truckers leave, caressing the larger coins, stretching fingers in her tight apron pocket.
Her movements hold the attention of any stranger in town, passers through, some regulars, too.
Better not stop, keep driving through.
Brown’s Junction just might
take the best from you.