An older gentlemen passed me by this morning,
Walking on the uphill side of his jog;
I was looking the other way
And he went out of his,
Moving a few feet away to the street and pausing
To say good morning so as not to startle me
With his sudden passing.
A nicety of well considered city life
That is honored most often by its absence
In modern urban commuter warfare.

Mockingbird lord of all he surveys
Atop the Pentagon Station Metro sign,
Watching the humans scurrying to their connection
A few short wingstrokes and a glide away:
In a race to the Washington Monument,
I know where I'd place my money.

Plane, bus,
Interstate with cars between;
A jet rumble upwind,
Combustion engines down,
Diesel and natural circling around;
Low mumble of Americans waiting patiently
Or shouting into their Bluetooth
Like some Bedlam destined commuter.

Monuments to the left,
Apartments to the right,
Pentagon to the west of me
And the river somewhat east;
A plane every minute,
A bus every three or four,
The line shrinks and expands
Like a python out on a hunt.

Last morning's bright sun
Has been replaced by a dulling white haze,
A horizonful of clouds, thin and thinner,
Working their way to thunderstorms
Some time later this afternoon;

A hot muggy wet blouse dripping afternoon
Where your lungs breath in and your brain says again
And the sweat accumulates in the small of your back
As the diesel fumes from the bus that's not yours
Drifts in over your eyes down into your desperate lungs,
Leaving a lingering jet fuel residue deep inside our throat
That seasons each swallow and every humid inhalation.

Wearing my best upscale geek,
I venture forth into the realm of IT,
A world filled with men, males without grace
Obsessed with program and loudy bloody games
They believe prove irrefutably that the geek
Will inherit the earth.

                            I have my doubts as they
All seem so self-conscious when they steal a
Fleeting glimpse of my mostly clothed breast
Or stumble through an obligatory hello
After I greet them with a smile and a hey.

After awhile, this double X geek finds herself
Yearning for Johnny Depp or George Clooney,
Someone who might top me with their pheromones
Like Etheridge or Jolie.

Mother cardinal outside the edge,
Babies chirping inside the tangle,
Carefully eyes the poet as she goes by
Pretending not to notice the coordinates.

Full moon low in the western heavens,
Bright white moonscape behind pale blue air,
Dove on the power pole, cooing softly,
Oblivious to everything except family and morning.

Rattle of internal combustion engines,
Wheels stopping, autos settling,
Cars accelerating from zero to thirty,
Semis in the background, interstate rumbling.

Love is a private thing
That should not be screamed from mountaintops
Or broadcast to tens of thousands of others
On baseball scoreboards, or dragged on banners
Behind airplanes along the shoreline like the half price
Happy hour special at some questionable beach bar.

Love is not a party or a game,
Or something consumed casually like a margarita
In Gallup or even Santa Fe one summer;
Love is neither a pop star nor a sonnet by Shakespeare.

Love is everything you could hope for and your deepest fears. 
Love is, and when it is not, there is nothing in the universe
That can make the pain disappear. 

Childbearing and poetry
Are equally virtuous,
Both possess great value
To the universe;

Unlike philosophy
Which clutters up reality
With lofty words
And opaque sentences

That have little relationship
To the real pleasure and the pain
That walks among us in the world.

He is my President, not my king:
The First Citizen, first among equals.
I owe him my respect but not obedience,
My fealty is to The Constitution
And these United States.

Neither god nor devil, he is only a man,
However well intentioned,
With human weakness and frailty;
As he would be neither my savior
Nor my messiah, nor Washington nor Lincoln,
Sweet homilies are not enough
To swear my blind allegiance:
I have bloody investment in this country
And will not easily surrender,
Or willingly give up,
My liberty before my life.

I've just been twitterhit,
A come-on from a man out in Twitterville,
An Indian gentleman, a polite, respectful Jain,
Who wishes me friendship and a bit of conversation.

He bids me friendship
Vast like the Universe
Deep like the Ocean
High like the Sky

Strong like Iron
Kind like Mother
Cute like Him
And sweet like Me.

I myself am not a Jain,
Although a Jain I certainly am;
If we met, I would accept his graciousness
And allow him to be properly masculine.

I am flattered and much touched he would send
Such an inviting twitter invitation,
But I realize every female twitterjain
May have gotten the self-same introduction.

Still, he is man and I am woman
And the game is always afoot,
I would have it no other way,
Even if we must play on twitter.