it can be so dramatic 
this peace lily called Fred
drooping one day,
perked the next
reminds me of someone I used to know
not who it’s named after
just the namer

I don’t want to write
a poem every day. I
want to go to sleep.

After I left,
Mom went Cargo Cult
on my bedroom desk.
Carefully boxed up were:

-Report cards I never read -Yellowed rolling papers -old fashioned hand sharpener (green) -letters from a girl I met at Philmont (and never wrote to) -small pine cone – Topps card #5 from original Star Wars series (Princess Leia) -Strat-O-Matic baseball team from 1982 (Washington Dead Kennedys) – two flint arrowheads -Photocopy of “Harrison Bergeron” annotated for speech competitions – index cards -Boyle County Public Library card -Chemistry notes, Physics notes, Calculus notes (became an English Lit major) – stack of party polaroids -old glasses -stack of old Far Side page a day calendar pages  

I bought the Collected Gary Larsen Far Side years ago.
I glued the princess to my laptop.

Some dried corn was just left on the ground
When a jolly old squirrel came around
He stole from bird’s beak
And robbed chipmunk’s cheek
We think he gained more than a pound.

Learning to live is like learning to ride a bike
Faltering, falling, tears, and plenty of bruises
One is a right of passage in our childhoods
The rest is everything that follows behind it
Adulthood is a balance; no training wheels
But if we’re lucky, there is someone to catch
Us whenever we start to topple instead
Eventually we all learn how to ride
Some of us better than others, admittedly
All of us on a journey, pedaling as hard
As we can.

A back scratch on sunburn boy 
lead to the turning of a cold shoulder, 
but it was steaming. 
Grin again, 
we know he will.
Grin again, 
we know him well. 

Three sirens.
Danger! Seek shelter! 
I ignore.

Weather so warm

You don’t even think about grabbing a jacket before you leave the house

Beer so cold, it goes down quick

Stories and laughter

Reminiscing and planning ahead

The drive home is euphoric

Songs you haven’t played in years

Windows down and driving too fast

And this is just the beginning

My beloved outdoors has turned
against me.  The cicadas, ticks,
humidity drive me here to read,
this cool dusky place need not
be conditioned by anything
other than the promise 
of her occasional presence.
Boxes of geometric scraps
of fabric are stacked along the walls,
remnants from her historical clothing
projects, begun in a time
that has itself become antique.
On the desk is a framed photo
of her a half century ago
dancing with a handsome man:
dress baroque, hair flying with the emotion
and passion of the moment.
Here I feel the concentration of her life.
My reading slows with the realization 
that perhaps I’m a visitor here
in my afterlife.