untitled
People wax poetic
about the softness
of a woman’s hands.
But mine are scarred and rough.
They build
and care
and hold
and speak of a life well lived.
Slipping Away Like…
What happens when
soon-to-be raindrops
gather in warm air,
like a swollen bubble waiting to burst?
They huddle, right before darkness
takes hold, turning cold into chilling
condescending pelts.
Becoming hasty like feisty hot tears,
accumulating into silent mist
until they slip from the safety
of their soft surface.
Cast out to take a plunge,
into the uncertainty of expanse,
landing upon new terrain and place.
Not like a fleeting feather,
but angrily tumbling onto
hard compacted red clay.
Shedding any excess of moisture
into runoff to fade into trembling mud.
Pouring unattached,
into the pull of the ocean,
evaporating its lost wetness
into vapor spray of release.
With hope of one day,
making their way back,
to float effortlessly into the clouds.
May the droplets, this time,
seek clarity, find serenity,
and get it right once and for all.
Or else return, like rage
transformed
into storm clouds, ready to raise hail.
six foot four
raised poor
poor education
full head of curly brown hair
civically disengaged
vapes
made me feel valuable
made me feel loved
loved me
and still, we crumbled under capitalism
(alt. title: dakota johnson, girl. $80k with that apartment? in new york city? please.)
Climbing in the driver’s seat of my Shitty Chevy has always made me feel in control.
The Passenger Princess life never suited me.
Not knowing when you’d leave
no say in whether you stop for food on the way
no choice in the music
or if the windows are up or down.
So why do I readily climb in the passengers seat
of your equally shitty Kia Rondo with such ease?
Sweet chocolate ice cream drips off your lip
The water doesn’t give you goosebumps when you jump in
A cotton dress and some old sandals
A turkey sandwich resting on the blanket in the grass
The lightning bug hitching a ride in my car
Our lawn chairs shaded in the garage
A dog bowl full of water on the porch
Running barefoot across the hot pavement
June brings us the candid doings,
The sweet nothings that make up summertime
The simplicities that we’ll forget,
Until we meet her again
if I thought begging would get me anywhere,
I would do it. gladly, loudly.
over and over.
if I thought you would listen for a moment,
I would speak. beg, plead.
over and over.
if I thought I could change something,
I would do it. little, by little.
over and over.
but all my begging,
all my speaking,
all my glad, loud pleading,
all the things I would change,
always ends the same.
over and over.
