we’ve, all of us,
been kicked when 
we are down

but there are
kicks
on the way
down, too

and kicks when
we are upright,
minding our own business

kicks from behind,
cheap shots,
kicks to the face

kicks from loved ones,
kicks from strangers

hell, we even kick ourselves
from time to time

we start out with
the bright, untarnished
heart
of a child

and end as broken,
mended,
re-broken and
mended again
“adults”

adults who
somehow 
still feel
what’s left
of that

bright, untarnished
heart, still
beating in spite
of itself

I called you Champagne, the factory’s glam
name for your golden hue. You hummed
& purred, you caught the light just so,
your doors shut with a satisfying thump,
sealing me inside you, safe from the world.
But those years on Chicago’s potholed streets
were hard on us both. Instead of gliding 
on air like a magic carpet, you bounced
& shimmied like a voguer on Halsted Street,
your struts shot, your axles grinding, your
tires as slick as the rain itself. We escaped
to Kentucky on fumes & I drove you into
the ground, left you for dead in the driveway
two whole years. Forgive me, sweet chariot.
I couldn’t afford to fix you—I couldn’t
afford to fix myself—but I couldn’t let you
go. Acquiring a coat of tree sap, dry leaves
& regret, you stood for my old life, when
I could go anywhere, anytime. In the end
I gave you to another man, some guy who
could look after you the way you deserve. 
I bathed you, shined you up one last time,
then waved, old girl, as he towed you away.
You looked as lovely as the day we met.

I have a notebook. Purchased in 2016. Entries based on life and the changes I have sought. I have seen some come to be. Lost a bit. Won not much except friendships and higher pay. Which is truly something. Time now. Move on. I have listed new goals in the notebook. Telling myself by the time I arrive on the final page. All will be well. I am seeking. Direction. Guidance. Hope which I have never quite lost but have quite certainly allowed to disipate. Time has a way of showing up. Screaming reminders of my age and station. Could it be too late? Although it’s never. Except it is. Reality is harsh yet reality is where the truest resides. The peace. The ultimate reasons. All that’s ahead. Tangible. The notebook on my lap as I write. Pen in hand. Conspiring.

Nursed along with siblings
Tended to day and night
In The makeshift greenhouse
To reach their 4 inch height. 

Moved to a larger pot
Outside when threat of frost has gone
Spritzed and sprayed and admired
All summer long. 

Shown to friends and family
As the smallest green orbs appear
They’ve grown into the most beautiful
Specimens this year. 

Red semigloss is their color
The size of a tennis ball
Multitudes to share with friends
And can and freeze this fall. 

The day has come to harvest 
We all are filled with glee
Only to find that the local deer
Have had their fill before me. 

graceful whiteness
wades in the shallows
lifts one leg 
hunts
for a calm morning. 

Time to hit the road
Three days of relaxation
I’m beyond ready

Pokeweed is shading
My yellow chair on the porch
Cool, even in June sun
Rescued the chair from junk pile
Poke comes up here every year

my brain is empty
but not empty enough to 
miss a submission 

carefully curated words dive

Does the night belong to You?