Condescension
A poem. What if I still cryduring intractable conversationswhen I am oldin my professional career? Would you preferrobots?People replacerswith calculatorsbuilt-in. With age, wisdomdoes notautomatically bestowitself upon you. Emotional intelligence isnot tapped intolike a keg. Perhaps you wouldprefer it to be?…
Self Saboteur
A poem. A clackety-clack inthe gut might be butterfliesor indigestion. Wings of mothsflutteringabout open flames, courting the endof rerun tv dinner neon nightsand cold dark beds… Those wingsflutter too close to death,too close to vital organs. The heart is a…
On a Bleak, Snowy Day in April
A poem. I stopped to wonderat the hazy greythat had consumed the day. That had consumed me. Maybe the flakeswere meant to cleansethe earth in preparationfor spring. Perhaps they were meantto cleanse me. But this grotty year has done enough detergingof its own…
I’m not the only one.
A poem. It echoes, laced with laughter,light as a feather,carried on the wind.Frivolous guffaws won’tspackle over the truth:I think we think wemiss the old you.Is it hidden in a box,under layers of dust — a dull veneer, particles of yourmolted former selves?Or…
Waning Gibbous
A poem. I wish I put more stockin the stars.The moon, meridian, mars,mercury, midpoint — elucidations for the W word. Why Monday? Whywould she? And I am back: wall of windows,Mandarin Bistro,blue speckled laminate table,red lines on the back of thighs. JCPenney lunchboxunzip,…
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