My mind wanders as I read a novel. Its ideas,
spread wide, ignite fireworks I chase–
sparks as abundant as icing on a cake.

My eyes plow through words in neatly stacked lines.
I build a mental puzzle of a world
inhabited by characters on the move,

where what happens next matters desperately.
Chasing the storyline is like racing
up seven steep flights of stairs,

never pausing to catch my breath.
Although eager to arrive at the ending,
I resent the rush. I set the book aside, take a bath,

close my eyes, searching for quietude.
Details of the story slip away,
like rubber ducks engulfed in steam.

Conflicting needs arise: not wanting a prolonged break,
not wishing to start again, yet tempted
to pick another book, hopefully begin a wild new ride.

It is like speeding along a German highway,
and afterwards, I am happy to leave the car behind.

A Dish for the Ages

Cinnamon, chicken, couscous, chickpeas, and raisins.
Steam greets your face. Warmth at first. Then heat.
Aura–rich of mixed flavors.

My earliest memory of this dish may have been when I was seven.
At home, my father was the cook. My mother did everything else.
Having couscous for lunch is a comfort, down the memory lane.

The cabbage stands high as a mountain protecting its citizens.
The round head is cut into four pieces. Served triumphantly.
Zucchini, the green stretched tongue of many love affairs.

It greets your lips with cautious heat. Makes your throat cringe.
The heat is held inside it with passion like a prison guard
in charge of a ruthless criminal.

Carrots beg to differ. An orange opposition. They accentuate,
add color. Turmeric. Salt. Pepper and double that in ginger.
The mystic ingredient is not my father’s magic hands.

Nor is it his lucky strikes at delivering savor. It is simply olive oil,
which turns any ordinary dish into a giant and adds character.
Thirty five years later, I stand in the kitchen recalling an act

I watched almost weekly every winter. I now am a father
tormented with a heavy legacy. Eager to please my son, guests.
I disturb the neighborhood with a frightening smell

that makes even the most civil stomach roar.
My son will still feast on couscous for a while. Then dismiss it
for many years, and later come back to it with pressing urgency.

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

Maybe an intellect to support his quest. On a good day of health,
fresh mood, rain, and to celebrate I will satisfy his request.
I wish he would remember his mother likes hers with tomatoes,

potatoes, pumpkin, and she swore her favorite was served
with fish instead. He knows the act by heart. The delight of
preparing and serving couscous. I bet he’d happily play my part.

White horses play flutes as they fly.
An elephant enters the room alone.
The land widens around wild animals.

Birds look for serpents who long ago,
abandoned trees for rivers.
Monkeys refuse to do business here.

Daylight trading is outlawed.
When a goat tried to sell milk,
offended neighbors growled.

Woken before their naps were over,
furious dragons set fire to the forest.
Rain was on an extended sabbatical.

Winds, caught by surprise, amplified
the disaster. Eight cheetahs convened
to look into the matter.

After much deliberation, they declared war
on nearby forests. They invoked emergency
powers to enforce curfews and impose sanctions.

Meanwhile, working chickens carried on,
undeterred, delivering eggs
to the world’s citizens.

Skin brushes skin, membranes juxtapose—
legs, breasts, arms, and lips
entwine like a Picasso,
where humans embrace beasts,
and contrasts abound: tanned and pale,
olive and brown. Blue on white—
a default background.
Enhanced red is in focus, fueled by
sudden thrill. Full blush.
Knights of many desires charge
to taste it all, conquer feelings,
free prisoners from lifelong sentences.
The wind hums softly as skies ignite
and stars grow chatty. An evening on the rise.
Every ending leads to a beginning. All shapes
form one body. Power is shared,
pleasure amplified; a dialogue
as intense and consuming
as taut clouds before rain.

As I listened to her, I fell in love with her energy.
She wears the aura of an inquisitive child,
in awe of everything around her.

Questions race through her head
like raindrops running down windows’ panes.
She has the intensity of drumsticks striking a fast rhythm.

She pursues life with an open-mind, upbeat,
treating every minute as an eternity.
A small dose of her observations keeps the mind rooted,

reminds me of how much I don’t know,
how much I take for granted.
Her sharp curiosity is humbling.

She addresses every subject as if walking into a room
the size of a football field, and flipping every light switch.
You can’t find a trace of a shadow.

The watch seemed to leap from the wall,
a strange artifice, as if it existed beyond time.

The two young men barely peeking into adulthood,
nodded in silence.

Their jeans, in style, only suit a lucky few.
Their calm amplified their presence.

Their songs were quests to restore losses.
The talkative girl in front of me was fired up, on a mission

to force ideas on us all through uncompromising energy,
self-assurance— the overwhelming weight of her chats.

She mentioned interrupting her mother’s interview
on a zoom call, never pausing to catch a breath,

never granting her mother a word. Her mother
had picked up only after ignoring five calls before.

Now I understand why the old man beside her,
fled in a hurry, choosing a peaceful seat for himself

and his book. I took his seat and continued the poem
I had begun on the previous train.

The clock hung on my office wall. The boys rode the green line.
The girl and the old man were on the red line.

In between, I read an interview with a contemporary poet
and looked up poems by another long gone.

My wife and son will pick me up at the end of the line.

This is not my last poem– ask my wife.
I wrote these lines last, though I conceived them first.
I wrote another poem, and returned to finish this.

I am still alive. Typing— can’t you hear?
This could still be my last line in my final poem.
The verdict comes when facts are known.
I may not be there for that debate.

I won’t be there for every discussion.
If this turned out to be indeed my last, know this:

1. I did not believe that at the time.
2. I had nothing urgent to communicate.
3. Like you, I have regrets, unfinished projects,
   unfulfilled desires. I am not satisfied.
4. I fell short: expected more: to be better, stronger,
   Higher, happier, richer– you know the drill.

I understand all of this is temporary.
But I might be wrong.

The moon contemplates a change of orbit:
to hide, go on a strike; pack its suitcases, turn off
the light, sever the wires, turn away, and plunge.

It has been offended since we learned to speak of it.
It resents how we invoke its name, color, mood,
its taste, even its feelings.

It is absurd that the moon can be shiny white,
bloody orange, a sad messenger, a fierce silver lion,
and a lover lamenting loneliness and abandonment.

We also call it joyful, majestic.
Or a loaf of Afghani bread, a wheel of Swiss cheese,
and combining the two we refer to it as a pizza.

Some say delicious, others say amore.
We offer it up for slicing—
half moon, full moon. Skinny or fat.

It may vanish, appear, or linger unseen.
We chart Its appearances to fill calendars
that insistingly drag us through hills and valleys.

Citizens of nations see images of their jailed heroines
or exiled kings upon its surface. Last I looked,
I saw everything—and nothing.

I could make out mountains, clouds, rivers, trees,
spaceflights, prose, equations, and also saw nothing
but a round shape begging me to engage.

When the moon is full, at its finest, we are told
our darker selves roam unleashed. Wolves howl loudest.
Under its light, we are able to cross the desert at night.

The moon is a cold-blooded body, suspended midair,
staring at us like a mute witness or an innocent voyeur–
an ageless elder, foreign in origin,

yet has recognizable facial features.
He reminds us of someone we have known
since we first learned to look up—perhaps a grandfather.

She complains about her routine as she clings to it,
moving through chores— early hours, as if treading
on fragile ground, she slips into the shower, then the kitchen

where the coffee pot rinsed the night before waits in silence.
Her shiny blue mug reminds her of a distant night,
at a campsite where a prominent moon

and cheering stars lit the deep-blue sky.
The light spread and shined, beaming like wildflowers.
Back to the cup, she sips, leans in, and feels excluded.

Her friends have side notes, hushed exchanges,
secondary bonds, secret addictions.
They shop around, gossip, practice yoga,

seek pleasure. They cheat time to forget the helpless now.
They stretch arms, lift chests, inhale desires,
and bathe in the forbidden— the tangled life.

She feels like a wrecked ship, exhausted from long voyages,
salted baths, and the weight of wrinkled luggage of young sailors.