She walks with quick, little steps,

Arms stiff,

Wooden, as if

Fearful of calamity.


Her breasts, however,

Parting the world before her,

They have a life of their own,

And she,

She is walking them,

As she would an unleashed


Nervously aware

Of the danger they present.




Only if Someone is Watching

The sun wasn’t up yet, when we reached Tolmie’s top.

Although it is called a mountain, it has no peak,

No crowning of snow, no noble goal of endeavor,

Just a walk up the gravel trail,

The beagle sniffing and pissing and munching

God knows what, a few smears of frost still.

To the east, Mount Baker, a real mountain, volcano,

Silhouetted against a reddening sky;

A murder of  crows flies erratically, scattery,

Circling over nothing in particular;

And the occasional dog walker, like me,

Watches their mutt squat, pondering

That great morning existential question:

Do I collect the shit?

Only if someone is watching.

No one in sight,

And it’s hidden in the grass,