Staring Into the Void of a Five-Dollar Egg White

Staring Into the Void of a Five-Dollar Egg White

The Human Condition as It Applies to the Long Island Suburbs

Every year, I grow more
tired of paying for things.
The albumen in my cocktail
adds five dollars - five dollars
for not even a full egg.
The math reminds me that I
could pay to walk inside
a historic fort in Augusta,
or stand outside it for free
and relive history as one
of the Wabanaki people.
Unfriendly neighbors
run deep through history.
I should not be surprised
by the raging woman
who tells me to go back
where I came from - all
because she doesn't like
seeing my parked car
from her window.
I wonder what view
she thinks I'm ruining;
perhaps it's the bird shit
on her garbage cans, 
its milk-white marbling
reminiscent of a veil
of egg whites dropped in gin, 
or perhaps it's the space
she needs to stare through
while she has the morning cigarette
that burns a small hole
in the atmosphere between us.

Observing the Void Ten Feet From a Swing Set

A small worm assaulted
by smaller ants, twists and flips.
I watch the violence and
consider my options.
Save the worm. Let the ants eat.
How do I pretend I can choose
- that the worm is good
- that the ants are good?
Only five minutes ago, 
I discovered the common park bench
is an endangered species,
its habitat reduced to fringe
spaces of dedication
to late loved ones.
I wrestle with a side effect
of my imperfect faith 
in destiny, my concern 
that I can ruin 
what is meant to be.
From this seat placed in memory 
of a stranger's husband,
I thumb this fear like a coin:
I am not special (heads)
I am alone (tails)
I would hate to die (heads)
or to live forever (tails)
Each path goes nowhere.
And so, the worm goes
into the earth, riding
on the backs of its captors.
I wipe the crust 
from my inner eye
and sit in the position 
I imagine God assumes
when watching over
our breaking hearts.

The Sieve

A friend used to joke that we’re all just blood bags
trying to avoid sharp objects.
He’d say this wryly as he threw out perfect
yogurt cups with creased lids.
Eventually, everyone else’s sadness catches up with me,
and I am forced to admit
that even though I feed the birds, it is the squirrels
who know I fill the feeders.