never ever

You never can tell.
No, you never can tell,
when the morning is still thick
and black with clouds,
if there will be, at sunrise,
a mere streak of silver against the grey,
or an apricot band beyond the distant tree line,
or a brilliant breath-taking explosion of color
that will erase forever the hesitation you felt
when you first stepped onto the porch,
coffee mug in hand,
when the morning was still thick
and black with clouds.

And you're glad now.
Yes, now you're glad
you put aside the paper, the laptop,
the distraction that might have held you house-bound,
and went instead against the darkness in hope,
and caught the radiant moment
before the day again turned somber,
and the late riser, the pillow hugger,
will know only the grey.

But you can never tell.
No, you can never, ever tell.
Oh, your heart may have leaped in your chest
and you might have wept with joy
as the sun kissed you through that cloud-crack,
and the presence of the Holy One of Israel
might have found you breathless
on your knees in the weeds by the river,
but still, no one who wasn't there
will ever understand.

So you can never, ever tell.

Midnight Jack

Take my blood pressure

right now, Doc,
while my eyes are closed
and my head’s tipped back
against this cool blue vinyl.
As the plane passes  
through the cloud line
gliding down to Raleigh,
the rumble and shake
have taken me back
to summer nights
leaving Grandma’s farm
after dark,
after dessert,
rolling on country roads
with the windows down,
listening to the crickets
and the peepers
and the tires
crunching on gravel.
Get that reading now, Doc,
before I curl up in the back seat
to dream the black miles home,
and a jackrabbit races the headlights
to the mile line and beyond,
finally kicking off into the ditch
to taste victory in our trail of dust.
I can see me now, Doc,
draped over Dad’s shoulder
up the steps
into the house
and into bed

with my clothes still on.

“Don’t wake the boy,” I hear.
“He’s dreaming.”