A few days before April 1, I decided to do 30/30 (30 poems in 30 days of April) for the first time in any long time. So, two days in, I don’t exactly recognize this voice yet.

1 of 30 April 1

Two Poems Walked Down the Street
Arguing.
“You already agreed!” said one
“Love is what we are after.”
“Yes,” said the other. “But not the only thing.
You know, food, shelter, some other things too.”

The first poem dug his bare hands into his pockets
And shrugged his shoulders into the wind.
A cold rain had begun to spit.

2 of 30 April 2

Is The Afterlife a Road Trip?

Nothing feels as real
as being on the road.
All the rest is like reading old People magazines,
Or watching a worn-out, re-run sit-com.

The transition between is perfect.
One minute, lying there
In the hospital,
On the couch,
Maybe in the middle of the road.
It hurts to breathe.
The spine has turned to hot wax.
And SNAP!, that Olds is
Purring down a fine 1960s asphalt
Black ribbon snaking out of the mountains,
Maybe the sun is rising.
Only a little breeze but, of a sudden,
The Olds is a convertible with no perceptible
Ground vibration. Smooth.

It is a perfect world for motoring:
Gravity works about the same.
Inertia is identical but —
No friction. No turbulence. No angles,
Except the chrome.