Category: Poetry

If I were 18, I'd race across black ice parking lots with a crowd of strangers and a stranger holding my hand. We'd fall away into loud forgotten hours...

Twenty years married Our lovely Mrs Smith Had a million and one hobbies To please Uncle Smith. From six in the morning Till the late afternoon She spent away baking, Cooking, and cleaning spoons...

Midas Itch

Add your own voice to the chorus The heckling harmony Shrieking oxygen-deprived squall Pockets full of liquid smoke Drenched denim from crotch to knee A little capsaicin in the air, on your fingertips Brings the burn with each careless touch The Midas itch to join in, to be drowned out...

Three decades later, it's all askew: everything your family owned given away after your mother passed. The gray carpet with foot tracks Worn into it, replaced by hardwood with gaps between the planks.

A Neighbor Upstairs

James speaks to me About the locks, or the holes in the steps. That is as much as we know. Both of us walk through our days arranging Objects, or cleaning,

All day long bandits and schoolboys floated there, just above the ground...