don’t worry
about the trash in your yard
it’s not
from my yard
it’s from all the thoughts
that heap up
in the middle of the storm
whirling
with a gig of their own
coffee
(sheers)
dada is soothing
when reality
is slicing me in small pieces
that out planet
what emissions
for a reading world
and to the combat
anytime
another coffee break
he did not try to coax me
so we just lay there
counting leaves as they fell
trying to talk to ravens
somewhere in the trees
I made mine coffee
I made you tea with lemon
honey
because I heard you cough
in the shower, and
that is what we do
the honey
an unexpected sweetness
after clouds of humid
yesterdays
it is so hard to see you
sleep interrupted twice
barking dogs
and twice as nice
an early morning garbage
hauler
paring knife, and
melon ball-er cutting
through the heat
with the precision
of one who knows
what is needed
1932
I stir the slurry of water and coffee grounds
and you are there
deaf and dumb-
slicing the mold off the vegetables
I throw them into the soup
cutting last years t-shirts into rags
to scrub the windows
I swallow the placebo like a good girl
playing along
someone removes another block, and
I keep smiling while I fall to pieces
telling a joke I heard on the bus
laughter instead of sunset
coloring my sky
rough sunrise
my eyes are brown
yours are blue
that’s good too
this poem needs work
it’s true
I planted seeds
that never grew
I woke up blue
I spilled my coffee
the sun
heartbroken
bleeds all over the sea
what is to be done
with an ocean of blood
and a gray sky
that does not end
2 small food poems
Spaghetti Bolognese
lost in thought
winding spaghetti around my fork
it falls off
you across the table
bathing in your wine
I begin again
winding
unwinding
Cappuccino
I can’t sleep
every thing he said
swirls around
in a foamy mess
like clouds
looks like rain
Mid-week stomp
Wednesday wakes up and walks on my face
twenty minutes before my alarm goes off
I cover my head from the sun, swearing
at him for opening the drapes so early
Wednesday spills coffee grounds on the counter
and I feel them under my socks
moving through morning chores I no longer
think about as I accomplish them
Wednesday says, ‘today is hump-day
and you have not been humping,’ and
mocks me, laughing when I am late
but I move on, move on like any other day
Wednesday follows me to the grocery store
and I scurry around corners to shake him
but when I get into line, he is before me
giggling with too many items in express
I wish you had been sober
seeing one another
after weeks
of imperforate silence
you, trying hard
to say nothing has changed
I, with my paper crown
taking it off and flattening it
it might be good
to scribble on
