Aunt Pauline started painting in her sixties,
little watercolors of beach scenes and roses,
matted and framed on her kitchen walls.
Her football-coach husband seemed mystified
by her sudden secret life. Each Tuesday
she packed her paints and set off for class
with 80-something Mitch Mendelson,
the watercolor king of Englewood, New Jersey.
Put a little red, he’d say, in each painting,
and she’d comply. Each week a new picture
was framed and hung, soon covering
the dining room, the living room, even
the basement man cave–a little red in each.
At Mitch’s funeral, she put a red ribbon in his casket.

First appeared in Nine Muses Poetry

She’s the three-legged boxer
sniffing azaleas in the yard.
She’s the rose’s thorny stem,
the trike-riding toddler
looping circles round his drive.
She’s the station-wagoned housewife
rushing to the store,
the jogger, brisk walker,
cell-phone stroller, careful cat.
She’s the mailman posting letters,
children laughing on the bus,
loosened-tie commuters.
She’s a roaring fire truck.
She’s the streetlight blinking dimly,
the sneak-a-smoke teen,
the wonton delivery boy,
the neighbors’ whelping hound,
She’s the cop.  She’s the phone call,
an old, suspicious van. 
When the traffic calms to whisper
and night obstructs her view,
she lies beneath her blankets
and thinks about the day.
She brings the boxer
to the rose stem, joggers
to the van. The mailman greets
the walkers. The housewife takes a call.
She’s the point between each being
wobbling into dreams.

Originally appeared in Theodate