Watch the restless swallows come and go
on the power line to Tuscarora.
Some avian law explains the way
birds leave space between one another.

Instinct decrees  distance between hawks
hunched on poles beside the Midas Road
and tells peregrine falcons  to nest 
at least two miles from other raptors.

What of the ranchers who inhabit
the range below?  From an eagle’s view
 above the plain, distance makes sense:
 what the high desert land can sustain.

 A question remains.  Does distance breed
 those disinclined to be near their kind? 
The trails of truck dust on country roads 
show the miles folks  go to help each other.

Not everyone is meant for this place.
Generations who stay find solace
in silence, comfort in kindred souls,
 God in the sunsets and the space.
 

​Something awful may
happen tomorrow.
Some terrible thing
may be waiting for
mourning.  Think on this:

The car you leave in
never arrives.  The
voices you hear are
whispering lies.  The
hankie you touch to
your lips fills with blood.

Think of the skull on
the mantle.  Ponder
Boethius et al.
Turn Terror away.
Make today quiet,
humorous and good.

Remember that the automatic door 
to the department store opens before 
you,  polite as a doorman at the Ritz.
Remember, when you descend the escalator
at the airport, to stand up straight for god’s sake!
Don’t you dare think you’re so small you might slide 
through the slit between the stair and the floor.
By the way, those pockets stuffed with grievances
weigh you down. So does your shortsighted frown.
Listen to me.  Laughter sets you free.

​

​Over the loudspeaker, “Christmas party radiology conference room at noon.”
We chipped in for cold cuts, brought goodies-- cheese and crackers, jello salad,
 Mexican wedding cookies.  Mary Dullea brought posole to eat in paper cups.  
Spiked punch lasts fifteen minutes.  Mrs. Petty whispers, 
“We shoulda made chicken soup for Dr. Kopperman.” 
Sandra brought bunuelos, made them in her Mexican cooking class. 
 Consuela spits hers into the wastebasket, hisses to Teresa, 
“I’ve never tasted anything like that.” 
Sandra gets huffy, “They’re Mexico City style.  Not New Mexico.”

Kyle, the security guard, plays Santa.
 Evie gives me three pair of bikini panties,
 each with a drink recipe. Mary Dullea whispers 
she’s selling hot Navajo jewelry for her brother-in-law in Window Rock.
The custodians have their party upstairs. 
 Lucille comes down to ours and complains, 
“They’re playing Spanish music. I can’t understand a word of it.” 
 She writes her recipe for sweet potato pie on a “While You Were Out” pad.
 It’s her new husband’s favorite.  He’s from the Bahamas, hates Albuquerque.

Mrs. Petty passes around a Christmas card to slip into Poopsie’s in-box. 
 Poopsie is  secretary to Dr. B, the chief of radiology.  
The card is a photo of a penis with glasses and a little Santa hat.
 Underneath it says, “Season's Greetings.  Guess Who?’
 Poopsie won’t come to our party.  The way she refers to herself
 as “eg-ZEC-ative secretary,” I know she won’t show. 
 Evie thinks Poopsie is having a mad affair with Dr. B.
 That may be true, but I think Poopsie hates all of us, 
especially this time of year.

Evie is thrilled to be pregnant.  We laugh 
when she pops a button because her boobs are getting big.  
The conference room is near the nursery and the maternity ward. 
When someone opens the door, you hear an infant cry. 
Mrs. Petty whispers, “Baby Hay-Soos,”  every time.

Each morning I mourn my reflection 
by asking a metaphysical question:

Who is this  woman watching me wash 
a crumpled face and brush ragged  teeth?

Why do I wonder whether I am  seeing
a doppelganger goose or a transgander?

Here’s the Siri-us hitch:  I ask my reflection
 a question and I’m replied by a virtual bitch.

“Your face would turn a thousand ships the other direction,”
 she observes with bemused affection.

 Some days I’m glad for our mourning conversation, 
 when the image of a disheveled septuagenarian  

gives me a special dispensation with a yawn, 
“You will  miss me when I’m gone.”

What if the one-legged tenant in the upstairs apartment
 drops his boot with a thump and there you are staring
 at the ceiling, waiting, because  you never bothered to learn
 who lives above, below, or about any neighbor, for that matter,
 and you are waiting for something that’s not going to happen, 
and you are missing out on meeting a really good person,
 but no, not you, with your negative expectation
and lurid imagination, you insist on reading the worst  
 in the paint’s imperfections, in the shadows and cracks, 
and you persist in believing doom follows gloom
​ as night follows day and there you are waiting...