Monthly Archives: September 2014

Lust

She’s in a black strapless dress
with the slit up to here,
and her long, styled hair
catches whatever shred of light
sneaks in at the cracks
of the darkened room.
She cocks an eyebrow
and rests her hand on her hip,
relaxed but ready.
She speaks clearly, quietly,
with a voice like black coffee:
warm, strong, a little jarring.
She only says one word —
“more.” Or maybe it’s “again.”
She smirks.
It’s both a question
and a foregone conclusion.

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At Ease

When blinds are closed and candles lit,
our drinks are made, and we just sit.

When we sang showtunes in the car
with each assigned a different star.

When I was lying in your bed
enthralled by every word you said.

When we recounted every scene
and flipped through pictures on the screen.

When, barefoot and with wine in hand,
we listened to the opening band.

When we made each other smile
and we ignored time for awhile.

When I was me and you were you
and every move we made was true.

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She Wallows

She spends so much time talking about believing
that she’s all but talked herself out of it entirely.

She spends so much time fretting over a number
as though it marks the Game of Life finish line
that she hasn’t even remembered
that she has to roll the dice
to play.

She spends so much time
losing time.

I both pity and blame her
because it’s all in her control,
and I have no patience
for women who spend all their time
pretending to be lost.

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Leap

Wouldn’t it be lovely
to be surprised?
To be caught
in your forward motion
and maybe even be able
to hold steady at your pace
because someone
finally took a deep breath,
thought ‘Why the hell not’
and made the leap?
Validation of then is nice,
but knowing when would be nicer.

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The Same Coin

What a blessing it is
to celebrate 13 long years
since fear, destruction,
helplessness, loss,
terror, and all the other
nasty, terrible things
happened in our backyards.
We still mourn, rightfully.
I hope we mourn also
that so many other places
consider these nasty, terrible things
a part of their daily routines.

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Neon Sun

This morning’s neon orange sun
is the same one
that greeted me and Dad
decades ago on every Saturday
on our way to the West Side Market.
He’s driving stickshift
while drinking black coffee
and smoking a Salem.
I’m letting the wind whip my hair
while we listen to classic rock,
and I’m already thinking about
our favorite stands and the smells
and how we’ll have everything done
before the rest of the world
even gets up for the day.
This neon sun illuminates us,
but it doesn’t blind us.
Not the same way the sun usually does.
Thank goodness —
because this morning,
I can’t take my eyes off it.

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Tomorrow

Tomorrow.
What a dangerous word.
It’s been too easy to fall into
the trap that is tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I’ll set the budget.
Tomorrow, I’ll write more.
Tomorrow, I’ll clean the clutter.
Tomorrow, it all starts.

The more I type it (t o m o r r o w),
the more I say it (too-mahr-oh),
the less real it is.
And that’s the trap.
Tomorrow isn’t real.

Today, however…

Now that’s a word
that means something.

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