December-January 2007 RETURN TO HOME PAGE FEEDBACK

MOON OVER THE CITY

A milky white
ball of a moon
popped out
between the
slim thighs
of the tinsel-lined
buildings,
bruised clouds
rimmed
with a silver lining
parted the way.

Standing enthralled
in mid-home walk,
I pointed it out
to strangers
who,
when their eyes
flew upward,
thanked me
as if
I had given them
a gift.

SATURDAY MORNING FATHERS

Gingerly
they carry them
in colorful bundles
or in strollers,
or hand in hand
toddling
guarding
as with their lives
their charges now
in the early morning
quiet streets
as Mommy sleeps
the rare sleep
of the childless
so to the coffee shops
they go.

Daddy knees
sweet donut kissed,
knotted tissue paper,
applied to anxious tears
and running noses,
clucking and reassuring
till
"Mommy home we go"
when they release
their children
into the rumpled bed
of marriage
where Mommy stirs
with Mommy's warmth
and Mommy's welcome.

ON THE BUS

Flattened
against the early morning
intimacy of others
damp curls
nicked chins
pocked skin
I sit
or stand
eye level
with chest hairs
buttoned flies
taut jeans
caps and hats
the neat
and the rumpled
dozing red-eyed
or slumped
in stony concentration
on newspapers
or books
amid
bulging briefcases
and the bulky heft
of shopping bags
and the skitter of
frail tapping canes
all pressed together
on our way
to work.

RAIN IN THE CITY

Smells
rise warm
from the rain splattered
sidewalk
where underneath
the trains scuttle
homeward bound
on a Friday night.

Clattering wipers
chase the pointed fingers
of tears
trailing slowly down
car windows
in the red and yellow reflection
of traffic lights.

Exhaust pipes
bellow and snort
like rhinos
interspersed
with the communion
of people clinging
together
in sodden lines
waiting for
the savior
of buses.

SUNDAY MORNING LOVERS

Sunday morning lovers
stroll
sleepy-headed
amid the cotton
pressed smells
of early morning
laundromat drying
and coffee brew.

Arm in arm
intimately entwined
in weekend editions
and dog
pulling leashes,
eyes shy,
blush prone and
sore in secret places
where juices
still flow,
stumbling
in the discovery
of new tenderness,
gingerly wondering
about the tomorrow
of their newfound love.

POOPER-SCOOPER

He forgot
his pooper-scooper
that morning
but his dog
doggedly shat
anyway.

In the consternation
that followed,
he lost sight
of the spot
where the
shit sat.

In guilty frenzy
expecting
to be busted
at any moment,
he searched
among the blades of grass
only to find
a penny,
a fake ring,
and an empty cigarette pack.

He never did find
the pile of poop
which to this day
haunts him still.

MAN AT THE WINDOW

Bright and hot
like a dime
the afternoon sun
streams through
the office window
where he stands
handsome and smart
stroking his chin
staring at the familiar bay
now dashed
with the sharp clips
of sailing ships.

He wants nothing more
than to refresh
his soul in
the icy blue water
or
to wreak havoc
with his domestic life
and catch a ride
on the ship
now steaming
under the bridge
headed out
to open sea.

(he imagines
the crew unpacking,
steadied for adventure)

Yet
he stands there
immobile,
pinned
under the grim weight
of tomorrow's deadline.

ANNA VAN DER HEIDE

Born in Amsterdam, Anna Van der Heide is a writer, knitter, and grandmother of three. She has been writing poetry since her introduction to the art by the Beat poets--mainly Gregory Corso--whom she knew in Paris during the early 1960s. She describes her work as brief intimate portraits of what she sees in everyday life. "I've never studied poetry. I just feel it--in my bones." Van der Heide is bicoastal, living in Noe Valley during the winter and in central Maine during the summer. Her poem "Saturday Morning Fathers" stemmed from her observations of fathers and children at Starbucks on 24th Street, she says. "I always thought them to be very touching." Two of her essays, "I Live in Noe Valley--Wow!" and "Emotional Street Turbulence," have been published in past issues of the Voice. They are available for re-reading, in our archives at www.noevalleyvoice.com.

The Noe Valley Voice invites you to submit fiction, literary nonfiction, or poetry for publication on the Last Page. Mail manuscripts, which should be no more than
1,500 words, to the Noe Valley Voice, 1021 Sanchez Street, San Francisco, CA 94114. Or e-mail lastpage@noevalleyvoice.com. Please include your name,
address, and phone number, and an SASE if you want your manuscript returned. We look forward to hearing from you.