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At the Happiest
Place on Earth, worn-out tots shriek,
deprived of their naps.

Hives. Itching. As if
her body can’t coexist
with her sense of self.

for S.

Without a ring she’s
uncertain, the baby no
guarantee he’ll stay.

She talks of threesomes,
abortions, things her mother-
in-law would faint at.

What do bunnies and
chocolate have to do with
a resurrection?

Hands on hip, baby,
sketchbook. Diapering, drawing,
birthing creation.

Now she has time to
blow dry her hair while I rub
away sleep, then drive.

Being green we use
fabric bags old boxes to
wrap gifts. No trees die.

My door open, but
the rooms are empty, thoughts like
forgotten relics.

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

Has it really been
a month since I told you all
about my day, dear?

Earthworms emerge, splayed
across sidewalks, tender skin
snags on rough concrete.

An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.

Hunched and hobbling I
move as if years older, a
taste of what’s to come.

Incrementally
I clean unearthing a clear
space on the table.

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

While I throw pennies
into a coin jar, Bear Stearns
gets a big bailout.

posted to my Twitter account

I need sleep, but I * need to work but I need sleep * to work can’t think straight.

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

Spring ahead and lose
an hour. What I could have done
in that length of time…

“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.

Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?

A haiku a day?
Not quite. Some days the tap runs,
some days it’s bone dry.

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Enjoy. Don’t steal.

All haiku
© Copyright 2010 Gimble
All Rights Reserved

Content licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- NonCommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported license. If you reproduce following CC guidelines,
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