Spring 18|volume 11|Issue 3

    Pittsburgh Poetry

    There, Not Here

    Funny, how your mind takes you somewhere else.
    Lipstick to lip, I switch from my bedroom
    in Pittsburgh to a cottage in Ireland.
    I stand before the Dolans’ dim mirror.
    I can’t see without light there or here.
    Will have to go into the frigid bathroom.
    There, not here. But wonder how my head went
    with a mere lift of arm to lip from here—
    without a ticket or frisking—to there.

    I’m OK with a Gray Day

    Three generations later,
    I have still not adjusted
    to Pittsburgh. I much prefer
    cooler summers in Ireland,
    weather that wears a jacket,
    sun that stretches to midnight.
    I’m OK with a gray day.
    I like to watch water beads
    bleeding from fuchsia flowers,
    crying for the world’s sorrows,
    washing them away daily.
    But Irish winter’s darkness
    arriving at 3 p.m.:
    that’s quite another story.