My perfect cup of coffee

is not the plastic travel mug
of Breakfast Blend that topples

from the center car console
onto my khaki slacks,

not Columbian or French Roast,

not afternoon cappuccino
with a hazelnut shot,

not Café JoJo’s mocha latte
iced, with whipped cream,

not keep-me-awake caffeine
microwaved four times bitter.

My perfect cup is home perked,
sweetened with sugar and cream:

like when my husband smiles at me,
that liquid look in his dark eyes,

and I want to cup his smooth cheeks
in my hands—

sip, drink, gulp
until the pot runs dry.


[This poem first appeared in Dunes Review, winter 2007-2008.]

Window Washer

My husband hates to wash windows.
Our longtime joke—we’ll move again
before it’s time to wash them. So,

nose-burning bucket of ammonia water
in one hand, squeegee in the other,
tired old tee-shirts draped over my arm,
I survey this anti-archival chore.

The sliding glass door presents its evidence:
fingerprints, spaniel drool and nose prints,
wind blown dust, a feather pasted with blood.

I wet, wipe, squeegee, dry edges, corners,
glide open the door, cross the track, repeat.
Door open, I stand astride, tilting my head
left, right, to see what remains: a film,

echoes of an interiorexterior viewpoint,
like those black-and-white drawings—
are they vases or faces? we ask ourselves.

[This poem was first published in the online Cherry Blossom Review, which I have just learned is going offline--defunct.]

"Striving for an F" and Autonomy from My Job

When I started work as a teaching aide in developmental English classes at a community college, I didn't know what to expect. Fortunately, it has been an interesting experience and a source of inspiration for several pieces of creative writing, including the essay "Striving for an F," which appeared this month for the first time in College Hill Review. Since its publication, friends have emailed me links to very recent articles on this topic in the national media. For the record, I wrote this piece in December of 2008.

I've been both surprised and chagrined that when people who've only seen me in the classroom find out about my many other creative activities, they are surprised. Why should they be? My skills far exceed those needed for my job, but they must know that a person is not his/her job. In this world, many creative people struggle to earn livings in jobs far removed from the activities that nourish their souls. It may be difficult for Americans to isolate the person from the job, but I hope they might be educated to do so.