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Photos we look bad
in. Braggy newsletter. That’s
how we keep in touch.

Can days be merry
and bright? Jobs – like ornaments -
fragile, out of reach.

She keeps it displayed
to remind herself that once
she didn’t know it

…create. Impatient
that I won’t pay attention
when I’m writing stuff.

Flat mapped names turn in-
to forested hills, roads wind
towards adventure.

“Let’s go to the beach!”
One kid, online, shrugs as the
other keeps texting.

“In a typical week, only 6 percent of children ages nine to thirteen play outside on their own.”
from The Option of Urbanism: Investing in a New American Dream by Christopher B. Leinberger

At the interview
J’s hired on the spot, full of
new employee glee.

J replaced my mouse
that broke. M’s card made me cry.
Both my greatest gift.

Undercooked pancakes,
misspelled cards, weeds for flowers.
Love makes them perfect.

M came home and washed
all the dishes in the sink
trying to be nice.

Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.

She curls around the
baby like a spiral shell
protecting its snail.

My weirdness is as
apparent in my kids as
streaks in a fake tan.

In wordless despair
M dissolves in tears clutching
me like a life vest.

Muddy quads, walls bare
of ivy still inspire awe.
Can we get in?

Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”

When a righteous man
is caught with his pants down, it’s
likely he’ll get spanked.

Unaware of her
beauty, unselfconsciousness
gives each movement grace.

Left in Manhattan
cab. Friends’ numbers, pix of my
kids in strangers’ hands.

“We’re domestic,” a
blonde woman tells her daughter
in line at the gate.

On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.

J9 can’t sleep since
her mother died stays up and
writes heartache in tears.

Today J begins
flying not yet a driver
the sky’s the limit

We watch bad TV
eat microwave popcorn feel
guilty not really.

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© Copyright 2008 Gimble
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