When he taught me to drive,
my Lieutenant Colonel Dad
commanded me to learn
on a stick shift. No namby-
pamby automatic ride. We
practiced on country roads
where he trained me to swerve
at will, to get the feeling of control.
This is how he lived his life:
grabbing the wheel. In later years,
hands curled, arthritic claws,
he would not stop driving,
changing course. I never knew
when harsh weather would force
my slide into a lie, fearing
a head-on collision, his sharp nod
the only brake light needed.
I was always missing curves.
I wonder if his ashes press
pedal to vase as he plots,
in Arlington National Cemetery,
a military coup, part of a convoy,
commando spirits planning
to eject hazardous materials
on my wishy-washy life:
a car-jacking, an explosion.
...
While driving west
we passed time
with an article
proposing marriage
could be stronger
if you share the thing
you most dislike.
I came up with the way
he ate his pudding, open
mouthed and rolling forward
on his tongue: I couldn't
swallow if I watched.
Perhaps he thought me
more disgusted than I was.
Sometimes his face
was puzzled at my gibes
though not quite angry
with those small darts
he would say "You don't
enjoy your life. Too
hot, too cold, or hungry.
You're impossible. You notice
nothing in the scenery, your nose
is always buried in a book."
Oh, it was true I read
throughout the canyon
drive, but it was not
true that I noticed nothing.
Growing dizzy at the edge
he tripped so carelessly
reminded me of his invincibility.
And, thus, secure, he told me
I complained too much.
I did complain,
my chronic transience
the one landscape in view.
Published in Revelations II: Personal Poems by Cincinnati Poets, 1999
Like the little girl in the fairy tale 
I get wrong-ways of a witch.
Frogs and snails
fly from my mouth,
stirred in a serpent's brew,
anger the spoon.
Words, those erstwhile pearls
grown tawdry, become wild
flashers, serrate the air,
whistling their dark way South.
Without the least regret,
I ache to taste the profane.
...
