The little devils of history

come out at night to

jab their tiny pitchforks

into the sleeping eyes

of the world's leaders.

My Angels

whip out of cars at high speeds

and take to the air

with their cigarette-wrapper wings.

A First Morning

Stepping down the gray

carpeted stairs—eyes

like dust bunnies—

she couldn't guess what

a comforting snow

was falling outside.

Both Ends

My life stands up

and walks away

from the park bench

where I remain

sitting the way

my life once sat.

My life heads past

the oak and pond,

past the playground,

past the diamond;

it whistles a tune

I used to know

when I was five

and mostly whole.

My life keeps on

its invisible path

like some raccoon 

oblivious to the fact

I won't sit here long

where nothing sat.