Envelope size, thick
or thin. We look for clues, don’t
like to be surprised .
Food goes bad, beer flat.
But words on a blog are fresh
to new readers’ eyes.
like a song title
you can’t recall, like the name
of your first grade friend
Earthy smell of fresh
mud awakens winter-dulled
senses like coffee.
She calls, panicked, freaked.
Can’t breathe, can’t focus, can’t write.
I soothe, long distance.
Neglected, ignored.
Like faithful dogs, blogs wait for
their masters’ return.
Some days she doesn’t
fit into her skin, too young
to be old this soon.
I type in a dim
dark room listening to surf.
There’s an app for that.
90 knows me well,
her sinuous curves — through five
states — lead me onward.
Unlike cold New York
you smile, take in all comers
with your midwest charm.
Red blue brown green pink
purple lines, veins arteries
pulse with commuters.
Though Burnham’s Folly’s
in New York, he saved his best
for his hometown dreams.
What naiad dances
in your pulsing, surging heart,
calling me to her?
City of Shoulders
Your fountains bring tears, your sky
scrapers pierce my heart.
She contemplates bangs,
a different color, hair
as reinvention.
At the Happiest
Place on Earth, worn-out tots shriek,
deprived of their naps.
With more handlers than
Lindsay, their paparazzi -
parents; stalkers – tots.
Fastpass, Magic Hours,
maximizing each for the
most fun possible.
Intense chemistry
onstage. In real life, silent,
eyes not quite meeting.
Morning mommies soon
supplanted by suits checking
BlackBerry emails.
Nearby, a mother
pokes at her salad while her
sons push food around .
“I just want to feel
pretty,” she says through her tears.
She already is.
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