The Mexican restaurant faucet is a menace.

          His favorite hobby is to spit at women.
Cover them in liquids,

                        Highlighting their liquor,
I turn him down, aware of his games.

         He gurgles
         And he growls below me. 

Like the simple handle is he.

Lead and make safe the way
Clear the cobwebs and branches,
Stones aside on the rugged path.
Our Atlas, holding the world straight.
So we can continue the climb
And rest atop dusty Mother mountains

I’m a supporter of ending this
breakfast early. The moon hasn’t left, yet
it’s 8 a.m. Always feels odd to me
when the moon watches the first coffee.  

It’s the overstayed welcome, I guess.
The noise of not belonging.
My own misreading of astronomy
and the idiocy of expected outcomes.  

I’m only haunted by the ogling creeper
of the novice horizon because I prefer
my moons gowned in black and sequin.
So all of my nightmares are about being awake.  

What is it that beats behind the beating
of a heart? The moon with its tumultuous pull
of wherever water? One cardinal lifts off,
worm-beaked to break a greater humidity elsewhere.

Another, barrel-chested, St. Louis strawberry
of the air, stamps around angrily.
I wonder if the sun doubts itself and postures,
waiting on the loitering moon.  

The sky is a collection of lost keys. No one has an answer.
On a Saturday morning in South City, 5th floor balcony,
enduring a rare sonata of quiet. I can’t hear the 14 bus,
but I watch as it swallows the offspring of Arsenal Ave.  

This isn’t the day
she will leave me, yet
it feels like a rerun
I’m seeing for the first time.  

Under this odd moonsun in the morning,
emotive of streetlights on cheap jewelry at midnight,
I watch candy wrappers run loose on the wind then
gang up again.

Always 

I’m the one who bares

The burdens and nightmares

The secretes and confidence

I’m not held the way

I once was

Now I’m held to a higher standard

Your arms no longer cradle me

They reach for me

Favors

Dependence

I’m your go to

I’m your friend

I wish

I wish

I wish

I was your child again

Hang my sweater
in the backseat of your car
and we can pretend
nothing really happened.

                Perfect day

        for an Atlanta Detroit game,
        the score 7 to 0,
        Murphy hit 2 home runs

        BUT
        and there had to be a
        but
        8 men in a van

        sweating
        on the trip back
        to Kentucky
        with no AC

        hell of an imperfect
        perfect day
        after
        all. 

On this overcast, sun-blotted
day, Coldplay’s “Clocks” brings me back to another morning,
wet and dark.  Once again I am waiting at the stoplight
in front of the Shell station at 7 AM.  Rain dribbles,
thunder stomps in mirrored puddles, and lightning cracks
black sky.  Shimmering pools of red and green
cover the road; in their warped
reflections streetlights wobble,

Most would call such a morning dreary, but somehow
everything seemed brighter in the rain.
Maybe it was the song on the radio or the lightning where sunrise
should have been or the sparkling puddles rippled
by tire treads but whatever the cause, it was
otherworldly.

Everyday you come outside
just to yell at your children
let them play in a busy street
I cringe as cars fail to slow down
fearing the worst for them 
I see your wife and the way 
she always struggles to do it all
you never help her 
instantly I become even more 
thankful for my husband 
than already before 
because you’re the same 
as all those men I once knew
men who are loud and obnoxious 
domineering and think the world
owe them something simply 
because they are man 
my face becomes very loud 
when I see you and I can’t help it 
I swear I tried to like you, 
give you the benefit of the doubt 
but you disrespected me 
in my own driveway 
then after seeing your actions 
In the light of the living room window 
I can’t unsee it or you
any other way.