Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

PJ Nights

on the mall in the center of town

the wind arcs up , whuffing over
my ears -- flip flops slap gazebo steps
my kids want an ice cream cone
and I want a Dixie Dog, its sharp
cheddar cheese and sweet relish

twenty years ago, I craved Brie
on whole grain bread       romaine tomato
no mayo
   and sugarless iced tea
I was cool, I had my cheap guitar
in a cardboard box, I had

my train card for the month
I talked to men from Mars in the courtyard
of Au Bon Pain          I slept with
a boy who made violins

yesterday, two boys / my son & his friend /
stayed buried to the waist until
the tide hit their chests        they poked
a dead seal with sticks, the dog fetched

and swam   on my dive, I lost my
top but recovered    I dried out on the shore
salt stiffening my hair      today

my children are getting smoothies
at the Bohemian while I lie in the grass,
eyes closed, thinking, remembering,

jotting down the sounds of fauna
flora and machine      later tonight (perhaps)

I'll find the poem


you sleep clouded with rain
cupping the night in your hands
the elfin beat of starshine
tangling hair, deciding which card to play

for now we are secured &
locked into languorousness
little rabbits beneath the stalactites

of bluish waters, love letting go
but never an answer

a questioning moon

into herohood come the flowers
all penning postcards on Sunday afternoons
full of surprising heretical writings
that pit pistil against stamen

dawdling or drawing, the architect wonders
if his tower of glass can support itself
that's wrong, he knows it will
what he wonders about more is the liquidity

of glass over time, how one day the bottom
will lens the skyscape fatter than the top
and he'll know why the girl across some
city street with a number on some floor

above the tenth can breathe so high
without greens or beaches or the tall
flowers of her/ my dreams or the pressure
of my ballpoint pen         now before the snow

it's paperwhite birch trunks and colored lights
dogs barking through the fog         gospel
on the radio, there is this homely glaze
sometimes a voice telling me

that anything could be enough

©2007 by PJ Nights

PJ Nights lives in Maine, where she teaches chemistry and physics, two loves passed on to her by her father. You may read more of her work and that of other poets, and also view a list of her publications, at from east to west:bicoastal verse. Her most recent project is a print anthology (edited with Ray Sweatman) of 3 years of featured poets from this site, named (aptly), from east to west: bicoastal verse (print edition #1) available at

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