How have we been
reduced to this?
A pound of pain,
an ounce of bliss.
Life’s bloom is off
the wilting rose.
Our goose is cooked,
and so it goes.
It started with Moonlight
and Valentino and candles,
with life rushing by
us, eroding our
edges too fast.
You say your face is not quite right.
Your haircut is all wrong.
Your chin goes in. Your jaw goes out.
Your nose is far too long.
If I can get bigger and taller and tougher
and leaner and meaner and stronger and rougher,
then I can play basketball better and better,
and they’ll call me shooter and hoopster and netter!
Sometimes
for no good reason
after a late meeting
or before the jogathon
image by Natalie Heathcoat on UnsplashYou say I’m “always right.” Go get the rope!
Slap me in chains and throw away the key.
Charge me with leading you too forcefully,
your mind impelled up my unyielding slope
(not even time to scan your horoscope),
bowled over by the power that is me.
How rather omnipotent I must be
to move another so, against his will
and quite without design, perfect the skill
of bringing forth blameless impotency.
However do I do it? All must bow
in deference to the mighty sword I wield.
And yet, one question, if you will allow…
Are you excused? Did you not choose to yield?
His cat was dead.
Ours was a garden party,
ranunculus in every color
no relief for
fur-brushed blood
against a bleached
white t-shirt.
I’m glad my birthday’s finally here.
I’ve waited for it one whole year.