Part-Time, Nights & Weekends:  

The down time drifts
like a lost balloon--
everyday there's rain
and the sure chill of seed-birds
foraging on the lawn.

A friend tells me
like dry soil
he expects autumn to stir certain
fertile memories in him--
waiting for August
without a gig, you begin
to fear friends
and the odd ex-student
you see every morning
at the bus stop. Once
the fertile lover of books,
she looks you in the eye
mornings when you can
barely take coffee.

The fear of growing old
as they forget you. The tv
confusing your words when
across the street you know
they're writing poems.