We went to dinner, which apparently is what everyone else does on an ordinary weekday night. We sat in a booth, my daughter and wife across from me. Dad look. Dad look," pointing passed me. a bald guy! you know, I say, some day I could be bald. But I don't want a bald father!

Hope At Least

As you sit there watching the homeless man with carpet padding scarfed around his neck draping down to his feet flip through a magazine he dug out of a trash can, leaning against the trash can, legs crossed, you think: at least there's always hope. . .


I've never considered myself to be a conversationalist, in fact I've beat myself up for being boring, for having nothing to say at the moment when something obviously needed to be said. Yet here I am writing poems, the written form of conversation.

Creation Creating (A Love Poem)

I thought about you, when you were so tiny, and how there was no way I could have imagined you'd be the spark you are today—though why would I've wanted to? you were perfect then, and anything you turned out to be would've been perfect too. I couldn't help but realize, while you pointed out [...]


Tonight we sat down, just the three of us, to read a book; the wants and needs, the friction of life fades away; because all we have we want, and it really doesn’t matter which book we read -if it’s the one with the fallen leaves, or the famous steed - because the warmth of [...]