Well, as this is *officially* the lit blog, I might as well post my most recent poems here. Enjoy.

The Laundry Room

In the winter, wet clothes
cling to the agitator,
frozen together. A lamp
defrosts them
before the next step.

There is no heat
in the laundry room, which was once
the entry to a nineteenth century
cottage.
The door is flush with the wall and,
if guests have had too much to drink,
it is often mistaken for the way out.

The old tiles freeze
sockless feet
in the cluttered closet.
We ought to put a rug down.
Hopping from foot to foot,
I take the hot clothes
from the dryer,
pile them on the world's only
mahogany laundry table,
and bury my toes
in fresh warm socks.

9-11-01
Twenty-five copies
Of "Alice's Restaurant"
Seem so out of place.

and sketches, too....

Rendezvous

New-car-and-nicotine Buick Rendezvous smells like Canton. Grampa's arms are tanned to burned like the end of his secret cigarettes. Sunscreen is a luxury we can't afford. He breathes slowly. He breathes on purpose. It's a Jones thing, the Jones sigh, a memory of Wales as we drive to Bloomington-Normal. Speak up so he can bite back with the teeth that eat onions like apples to prevent scurvy.