It's Enough

It's enough
when the sun fulfills its promise
as it rises over well-worn eastern mountains
flooding golden hopes and promises across
drought-stricken earth

when a lazy two-tone cat rolls its back
on still cool concrete stretches its left paw
toward a cloud and drops it head before
heading off to the hunt

when a salt soaked ocean breeze
rambles across the quiet sand of changing tides
through bungalow-lined streets,
up business-attire boulevards, and into the
soul of scrub-brush chaparral

when the incessant chirping of caged birds
competes with the mechanical hum of appliances,
the swooshing traffic across sun-bleached asphalt,
and the faint rumble of jet engines
as people begin and end their journeys

it's enough
when faces smile and speak in courteous tones
directing you through the courtyard
surrounded by shades of institutional blue walls
aluminum seats lined up in neat rows
and even a futile splash of color for decoration
or camouflage
or denial

it's enough
when well-intentioned words spill from the mouths
just below the sympathetic eyes looking at you
pulling standardized data from their brains
while sliding across standard government-issue table
pen and paper covered with the words
for you to agree with a signature that
your son, once again, is not good enough

that he has a limit
that his smile does not produce the necessary percentages
that his hug does not have a place on their graph
that his words are not within the expected lexile
that they may never be enough
that he is not enough

That is enough
to drive a man crazy

Rings

The strength of a marriage is not based upon the cost of the ring, rather it is built upon the mettle through which the bond is forged.

Expendable

It is quite easy to feel expendable when it appears that your only purpose in life it to complete tasks assigned by others. 

Second

Second

He always felt second-rate, second-best, second, even when that meant third or fourth.
Sometimes it made him feel like he was nothing more than a whisper in the night that was shrugged off as background noise.
Words leaking into the night from a neighbor's television with its volume too loud. An argument in an apartment down the block.
A song bumping while the car turns into the boulevard and drives away.
He became the chirping of birds.
The barking of dogs.
The buzz of cicadas in the city.
He became the swishing freeway that rises up off the concrete and sails into the ears of those unlucky to be writhing earshot.
Eventually he stopped becoming anything.
Not the hum.
Not the clank.
Not the whistling or rumbling.
He became silent.
He stopped getting in line.
He was no longer second because he was no longer there.
 He simply was not.

The Burbs

The shiny sedans and overcompensating SUVs swarm out of driveways and down hills. They dart in and out of streets wistfully named after flowers or longingly named for far-off places that hold their own glory.  Facsimiles that will never become here and now. Middle of the road zip toward the stop signs and through the stoplights, then enter the freeways where they sit lurching forward, inch by inch. They look out the window at their tacit neighborhoods propped upon hillsides, like small kingdoms that recoil at the thought of conflict. The drivers apply make-up, listen to the news, bob their heads to a song while remembering some past lover back when the world was for the taking, and like so many generations before, they believed themselves somehow special. Somehow the rebels chosen to define an era. Somehow groundbreaking. Now they strive to please the boss. To please a spouse. To raise children worthy of an occasional brag. They wonder how Amalia will do in level three gymnastics. She hops and flips around the house with abandon so much that one day she might break something. Hopefully, not the television. Sophia has always attacked the ball with the courage of a lion, but something is different this season. She needs to keep her mind on the ball and goals instead of boys. Diego. Oh, Diego. Poor young man is too serious. Wears his hair and clothes like a thirty-five year old manager of a store. He needs to untuck that polo shirt. he needs to throw away those mannequin dreams and be a child. Poor child. Can't he see the world in front of him doesn't need another follower. It doesn't need another car on the freeway, merging from the off-ramp into the line cars hoping that a boss notices the sincere effort; that a spouse notices the hard work; that the children notice the log hours; that the bill collectors see his side of the story that the car in his blind-spot sees him switching lanes, just like the guy in the old pick up sees him roll through the stop sign in a hurry to glide down the hill and into gridlock of his choosing.