Separation Anxiety

Oh, I knew of your going
weeks before you stepped on the plane;
a mutual friend informed me.


But I didn't pick up the phone,


call to get all the details. I thought
that I would not miss you,
that I would surely be able to hold


you firmly in my mind during


the months of your travels.
Yet now I keenly feel the ties that link
us, thinly stretched across


continents and oceans and time.


And I am suddenly reduced
to walking past your door and phoning
to hear your voice on a machine.

(This is the CENTRAL poem and theme of the ebook: Odium Bar & Cafe, available at www.powells.com and other online retailers.)

1
A warm, almost tropical in it’s feel, summer
Saturday night, settles in over
the still busy, but starting to quiet city;
traffic diminishes, as shops and stores close.

The main artistic event of the local poetic
season, anticipated by many, is about
to take place at the Odium Bar & Café,

downtown, where Seventh and C collides
in a concrete jumble of tall buildings and wide
streets, and trendy new establishments. A heralded
event where poets, aficionados, and musicians

will gather to make and present their works of art;
to share common visions, and long worked
on productions of voices and sounds. To strut their stuff.

Though still dusk, a number of people are already
present inside the brightly lit Odium Bar & Café;
the owner supervising preparations
for the profitable evening ahead, staff members

bustling back and forth, poets and others
who had arrived early, and musicians setting up
instruments and sound equipment. Some of these

early patrons mill about the large
room, checking out the modern art,
hanging prominently on the pristine white walls.
Some visit with each other; many

being acquaintances, amid the heavy wood
tables and chairs, all newly refurbished and heavily
lacquered in bright, shiny, primary colors.

Circulating amidst the staff and patrons,
wafting on the unseen currents of artificially
cooled air, float the odors of sweet cinnamon

and strong espresso. The enticing aromas fill
the room and the nostrils, with hints of delights for the palate;
as the sounds of acoustic guitars being tuned,
promise to nourish the varied collection of souls.

The Ant

A small red ant hesitantly stretches translucent
rainbow hued wings. Seeming unsure
and without direction, she wanders my forearm,
perhaps seeking comfort or guidance before assuming
the heavy responsibilities of queenly destiny,
before spreading transitory wings
to the summer wind for that one ordained mating flight.
I understand fully, try to provide
her with the needed female support, empathy,
and I'm subtly reminded again how undeniably hormones
lock us into predetermined roles; hormones
and tender ovaries swollen with fast ripening eggs.
Suddenly, the ant spreads her wings
and effortlessly soars off into the waiting sky.