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When her voice leaves her
body, recorded, it’s a
stranger who comes out.
Status on Facebook:
“Watching CSPAN.” Many like
seeing sausage made.
She’s coming home, train
speeding through the heartlands, back
to where we miss her.
A small indulgence:
nibs, inkwells, hand writing in
a click to print world.
Cut pin stitch fabric
stretch confines of clothing to
become catwalk art.
Hands on hip, baby,
sketchbook. Diapering, drawing,
birthing creation.
She may have faults but
to me she’s flawless, a me
I wish I could be.
Why they don’t do it
my way I can’t understand
’cause I’m always right.
Like green periscopes
tiny shoots peer from muddy
beds searching for sun.
Night pushed back, a dark
blanket kicked aside as the
sun stays wide awake.
When she’s not funny
her raw candor grips readers
probing her deep wounds.
Taken by cell phone,
he grins shyly, she glows as
if her prince has come.
Either it’s a loud
HVAC system or
white noise to mask fear.
Latex gloves. Cotton
swabs. Antiseptic. What would
MacGyver create?
Perched on the exam
table like a rib roast on
white butcher paper.
A mouse burrowing
deep, it peers out but can’t be
caught with eyes open.
I probably said
more than she wanted to know
but it’s decades past.
Stark trees hide flowing
sap like a dormant love that
awakens in spring.
Big Ben. Fish and chips.
Carnaby Street. What I see
as I say hello.
I thought I believed
but I’ve had friends see more truth
inside a beer mug.
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