This simple act
has become a pact
I have with the kitchen floor
I sweep it several times a day
because it’s keeping score
It knows when I sweep it often
It knows when I sweep it not
And when it feels neglected
it gets slippery in spots
I have many other things to do
than Tango with the broom
but, my floor would rather see us dance
all across the room

Pain makes
narcissists of us all
Only Jesus

Nothing but the vastness
of it’s own empty space
for the mind
that so desperately
searches for words

There is living
without living
and two kinds of dead
Please don’t put me
in the grave
before the eulogy
is said

It is said there’s a woman,
For every man,
But it's not written in stone,
Only written in sand

We don’t run
We don’t skip
We don’t even walk
We slog
through the mire
of each other’s suffering

Difficult to know
what’s in one’s heart
when one so rarely
looks there
And taking a peek
into Pandora’s box
risks the release
of a nightmare