By David Stallings © 2009
She wandered with Pazanne,
her German shepherd;
tended secret campfires
along the Olympic coast,
dipped naked into Cascade lakes,
opened to the datura mazes
of Southwestern canyon land.
Along the road she gathered songs,
traded them for rides.
She would come calling
when her path brought
her back to Seattle.
Late one night I returned
to my befuddled cabin
after a starry walk along the Sound.
Curled in my bed, [...]
By David Stallings © 2007
My young self drives an old Volvo
up Fourth Avenue for the first time,
just below Yesler overpass
near where I work.
He has left his Colorado home forever,
bound for graduate school in Seattle.
I will hail him as I often do,
reach for words
of confidence
and fathering he has long
missed.
But not today.
Fuck it.
I am old and lonely.
This time, it is he [...]
By David Stallings © 2005
An elderly Asian man
finds a seat near me
on the Route 550 to Bellevue.
About every third breath,
he emits a deep Buhhhh
from low in his throat.
This eruption shivers me,
though less than I might
have expected. He is not
so much older than I.
By the time we cross
Lake Washington, I quietly
try on a sympathetic
Buhhhh, about every
third breath. It’s not
so bad [...]
By David Stallings © 2003
Pioneer Square, so sunny it feels good.
Next to me, waiting for the walk light,
a trim woman smiles hello.
Encouraged, I return the smile.
Crossing First Avenue, she’s a fine sight.
I follow, ready for
casual, tasteful ogling.
She moves quickly.
My pace increases.
I scamper to keep up.
She skips up the steep terminal steps.
I am breathless,
more aware of falling behind
than of her [...]
By David Stallings © 2003
Nothing can restrain the light.
Spring billows along the shore,
the roar of the sap
races in my ears.
Dark clouds to the north
and in my chest.
Wherever I look,
sadness and doubt.
Numbing tiredness.
The thrumming of ferry pistons
promises my exhaustion
a lovely short nap.
Misty morning bike ride,
spray on my pant leg.
No bother,
it will dry
and brush off.
Gray sky, water, air,
dull green wash along [...]
By David Stallings © 2002
On my morning commute
I pass a panhandler
who insists,
“Top ‘o the morning to you!”
I hurry by.
Who does he think he is
rudely intruding, jocular,
and hoping to make a buck?
