what Kermit doesn’t say to the taxi driver on the way to the Met

this is for my friend Roddy from the SC BookFestival who reminded me how much he liked this poem--thanks Roddy




it’s not easy being
green, to always wear
the same outfit and yet
never quite fit in,

a greenhorn in a world
of know-it-all puppets
left with all the jobs
no one else wants,

one could so easily
turn into a green-eyed
monster that envies
all the rest

for parts more loved
than any held
by a swamp-singing
baritone on a lily pad,

even a greenstick fracture
could be so easily gotten
from slapstick falling
but gets no sympathy,

only a laugh
here and there, perhaps
for a common
green frog

trying to make a few
greenbacks, to put
a new bowtie on
his neck, just once

a private reading

when the words drip from your lips,
I want to be standing under your chin,
open-mouthed, tongue to tongue,
feel the tips rub up against each other,
not like the grit of a cat’s tongue,
whose relentless sandpaper licking
scrapes a surface smooth, but ridge to ridge,
pulled to attention as if each notch intentionally
takes its time to find how best to fit
the grooves of sound together,
your bitter to my sweet, like tears of honey
slowly sliding through a maze of maybes
until a yes drops onto a rough patch
and a nipple of amber, heated
by the wings in your throat warms
the quivering of mine to a murmur
around the silent spaces, and then I want
to swallow you, lips and tongue and breath
from a fog that lies along a ridgeline at dawn,
to set my earlobes on fire, my cheeks to red coals,
my eyes to yours to beg for another taste

Winter Solstice

sits on the moon at a tilt,
like the tarnished spoon

left behind a woodpile
after it was used to dig a hole

to hide your mother’s brooch,
that lies quieter now

than when it was stuck
to her breast, the skin

beneath her blouse, loose
and raw from sighing,

the purple of her veins
unable to make ends meet

In the Co-habitation Dream

we read to each other all day and into the night,
even from outside the bathroom door
until the syllables run out and quiet
is no longer what we run from but lean into
like a palm in the small of the back, fingertips
on a forearm, a cupped hand to a jawline,
which is enough, except when it isn’t
and we hold hands, our fingers, beginning
with the smallest, test the heat of each other’s
need, interlace the cleavage between them
as each knuckle bends forward to embrace
its twin and that is enough, except when it isn’t
and the pillow under my head becomes dented,
warm and I have to turn it over to the cool side.

Sleight of Hand

I ask you to take a word
and hold it in your ear,
practice saying it in the mirror
with different expressions
on your face, accenting
each syllable up and down
a scale of notes, low to high,
from beneath the big toe
of your right foot to behind
the top edge of your left eyebrow,
listen to it hum from a stutter,
then watch it drop into a puddle
of milk, slow motion, bouncing
an echo off your tongue
to find its saltiness, its sweetness—
if it is a good one, it will have both—
then spit it into your hands
and roll it between your fingers
like a coin, playing music
on your knuckles, and if
when you rim it, it rings clear,
lay it gently on the window to see
if its colors blend with the rest,
and if it does, breathe deep
and if not breathe deeper
and then begin again.