You can call me a comforter

emitting essential oils

like quiet sighs, silk-washed

in tears silent as the ear of a baby.

 

I am garnished with cat hair

kissed with menstrual blood

yoga-sweat, and chocolate; 

redolent of random recipes 

of pumpkin-spiced popcorn

 

stitched of wardrobe remnants

fierce as flash narrative

from every book

you've never read cover 

 

to cover, spines weaving the story

of forward-thrusting action

flashbacks and back story,

storyboards and detective 

 

boards with news clippings 

and mug shots: yarn-festooned 

with all the colors: fuchsia, violet,

sky blue, turquoise, saffron.

 

You can call me a chrysalis,

wrapped in a cocoon

a container, the skin

 

inseparable from the body

the persona fronting the ego

protecting a slumbering Self.

In Memory of John C,

 

Bookman's Corner in Lakeview 

              a half mile from the el,

not a chic shop; some call it an            eyesore

but for us a balm spectacular,

              like visiting the eccentric uncle

in his hoarder house, that mix

of dread, wonder, relief−plus dust,

familiar and exotic as ancestors.

He greets us with a clothespin

as our bag claim check.

 

Always some couple on a first date

turned last when the young lady

              whines about the mess. Always

a regular chatting about the state

of the world, the change in the 'hood,

or John telling tales about customers

he had to                          detrude from the premises

for eating, drinking, talking on their cell phones.

 

NO PHOTOS PLEASE !

 

he’d shout; a celeb defending his privacy,

and ours.           Always a sale, with most books $5;

often a free gift with purchase. Aways a dour shrug

for credit cards; for cash, a zesty grin.

 

No register, no calculator,

               no receipt, but his algorithm

                               beat Amazon: hey, if you like

that, how about this, a     medium              recalling

          the tome from some

                                      invisible stack.

 

You see where this is going, right?

 

We worried he'd never make it through Covid, 

him or the store, like the slow-mo perfect storm,

              that accident you            helpless              watch.

           

Yet he did, all the way to 87 in 2023; the shop

                                                                                      nearly 40.

 

Rare run. Well done.

It’s the difference between breathing

and being breathed — Rosemerry Trommer

A ll summer long

B efore breakfast

C ats barely fed

D awn breaking

E very morning

F irst thing first

G et my iced tea

H opping into shorts

I pull on my tie-dyed tee

J ust in time to get to the beach           air

K issing bare skin as I hustle

L etting the swirl of wind

M ess my hair everywhere

N othing else on my mind

O ther than body and breath.

P ast the mansions on Lake Shore Drive, pace

Q uickening, queen of the morning,

R ats crossing my path like

S quirrels missing their cute

T ails.               Nothing was ever

Ugly that summer.       Sometimes

(V ery few) I made it to the mid-day class

W hen teens ruled the beach, yet all

X enial, genial, gentle, because all

Y oga all the time; my full-time remote job a mere break

               in yoga action.

Z enith was the sunset session, knowing I'd start all over

A gain tomorrow.