A wonderful poem by my daughter, Tara:

Poem on the Bus

In my reverie

could there ever be strife?

Maybe that's like assuming

one would never have a bad day

How accustomed we are

masking our feelings

The answer to questions

fueled by judgment

When in reality

contradictions

make things palpable

Sergei

You're trying to nail down the left hand

of Rachmaninoff’s no. 3 in D minor

Nearly impossible to play!

eyes wide open in a room with the lights out

eigengrau . . . a grayness

not the same as practicing études in conservatory

blindfolded with the lights on . . .

Sergei himself here in the darkness

the King of Span

his gigantic paw stretching

the interval of a 13th on the keyboard

chuckling as you struggle to hold your posture

knowing a cramp is on its way . . .

you looking away . . .

glissando-ing like a caged animal

until the wooden hammers

blanketed in compressed felt -

the tuner's pin controlling their hardness

softening the tone -

acquiesce . . . releasing you into the world of light . . .

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Isn’t it time to resume the obligatory? . . .

Can you imagine? . . .

Not unlike the postmodern foisted upon minions

when no one was looking

and the brownout was force-fed . . .

And just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, yes? . . .

Is it safe? quoth Sir Laurence . . . to the Marathon Man . . .

Low-lying clouds should be forgiven . . .

They know not . . . As for you? . . .

The same is not true . . . You knew . . . around the block

and then some . . .

Wendy Bevan

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A one-size-fits-all transcription of experience

and your mind's ear takes a break today at Mickey D's -

generic, anti-confessional, without

the clawing happenstance of a Johnny Depp lookalike

backstroking in a sea of Elmer's Glue . . .

You continue to get antsy over dead zones . . .

Who doesn't? . . . but do we need two of anything? . . .

Attention-deficit mavens and their obsession

with the gap between fit and finish

transforming stage directions into librettos

puts one in the mood for a slice of pizza

with the works . . . from Baldy's on Cork Hill –

a stopgap for fortune tellers and fortune hunters . . .

If at any point you feel small, you should . . .

Wendy Bevan

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This poem is a game of scrabble . . . a game of babble

a game of mirrored sunglasses reflecting

a box of colored pencils . . . as you

thumb through Augusten Burroughs's Dry

inviting a tangle of lines leading to a fun house

in the middle of a re-enactment . . . as if

parallel parking a shopping cart were sufficient . . .

Again you argue the clock

with thoughts of a drybrush masterpiece

by Andrew Wyeth . . . at the Fenimore Museum . . .

Everyone deserves a break today . . .

Why today? . . . Why today the blue vacuum with dry load

applied to a dry support

from your days revitalizing sober living apartments? . . .

Wendy Bevan

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You seem to enjoy the almostness of your borderline personality

carrying on about the leaks in emptiness

that accompany Bruegger's Everything Bagels

and the duffel bags . . . of risky narcissists

adorned with fidgety flight tags

from the Bucket's 100 Places to Visit Before Passing . . .

Stay the merriment became your duly-noted mantra

even after your breaths exceeded the numbers

and you hop-scotched with bouquets of trillium

that happened by on their way

to yet another ho-hum commercial break

that . . . despite the menagerie . . . always made you chuckle . . .

especially when Facebook friends pointed to lapses in serving styles . . .

And you do believe yourself, yes?

Wendy Bevan

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Postcards from the corner office offer tips

on managing the parts of life that make no sense:

seductive five-star creamsicles

soundtracked by melodic lines nursing

pentatonic and catatonic scales . . .

You pride yourself on inscrutable self-scrutiny

the examined life . . . and all that

as if parroting fan-fiction of the Canon

through closed lips

makes dumbing down the default . . .

So why the obsession with spoon-fed fork-tonguers? . . .

The files . . . sight-read

have been sealed . . . and now

your raised hand is being co-dependently ignored . . .

Wendy Bevan

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You're charged with toggling the laugh track

while waiting in the checkout line

at the supermarket . . .

The manager is a clown suit . . .

A clown suit is a root canal sans Novocain . . .

A clown suit is a box lunch . . .

An after-the-fact afterthought . . .

Your flight is taxiing

and now the ticket person in a clown suit

is telling you you're in the wrong line

but there's a million dollar smile

on a million dollar baby

in a million dollar condo

with a million dollar (fill in the blank) _____

Wendy Bevan

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The subject has become the object . . .

It happens whenever you click Search . . . igniting associations . . .

The tendency to remain open

while people hover . . . submitting requests . . .

Are you ready to give it up? . . . to give in? . . .

Let's hope not . . . at least not until

your fingers are ready and the score is on the stands . . .

Opening statements, please . . .

What if we were to record every other word? . . .

Would nonsense reign? . . .

Would it become the New Now? . . .

You were late . . . with revisions . . . only

to be called out . . . to be called out . . . for redundancy . . .

Antonio Palmerini

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You count out change from a shiny metal change counter

attached to your belt with Velcro . . .

You score a merit badge for the likes of this . . .

Isn’t this romantic? . . .

An aging-out squeezebox expands and contracts

to the gesticulations of bystanders . . .

It’s a day away from eBay . . .

Forging ahead nonetheless

with less than Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels

you wait tables in reruns

buttdialing Ubers for Q&As

while running changes with after-hour noodlers . . .

A good misstep

as innocuous as an up-close-and-personal . . .

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Escaping through the cracks in your argument

following bread crumbs to the Temple of Incidentals

restless long legs

parody of a back-flap biography

you fret over brands of black pepper

focus on the container . . .

Stepping out onto the deck with eggs over easy, yes? . . .

And coffee? . . .

The seemingly insignificant? . . .

There's nothing wrong with invisibility

and lemon juice . . . held up to a light bulb

selecting from menu options

making do . . . treading water . . .

Come prepared to defend your thesis . . .

Antonio Palmerini

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The theatrics begin . . . with words up . . . words down

rehearsals . . . do not pass Go . . .

You know how it is

with everyone talking . . . at the same time . . .

It's tough to follow the storyline

if there is a storyline

but then some stories are better without a storyline . . .

Just let the events unfold

in your pocket . . . I don't care

little matter where . . .

Whatever's convenient for you

I'm trying to wrap my head around something

that will get me through the next few hours

or the next few minutes . . .

Antonio Palmerini

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Nights of reruns with brief, lost faces

feed the illusion of prediction

as if a magician's assistant living out of a suitcase

were cut in half . . .

location . . . location . . . location . . .

You as stopgap at the supermarket

comparing tongues with other sous chefs

squeezing into line for a virtual rollerama

of one-upmanship . . .

sampling tidbits for a breakout special

enjambed with abandon

awaiting a redo of the Breakfast of Champions . . .

The resident Kerouacian behind the deli counter

types a cemetery

on a roll of butcher paper . . .

a makeover for aspirants outside the walls

carries you through a thicket of unknowns

with one-way tickets to elsewhere . . .

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You have a reputation for down time

for rearranging players and their parts . . .

It's all there . . . in your notebooks . . . on your (un)zip drive . . .

It has become your mantra . . .

Incomplete sentences . . . written with crayons

follow in your wake . . .

The manner in which they carry themselves

and the questions . . . left unanswered . . .

Trying to construct reality with Legos, yes? . . .

You and your erotic other captured on tape

with sticky wickets . . .

I never believed in falling prey to pews

but then again . . . and again . . .

Something is sure to befall one-nighters . . .

Kate Barry