There is no graceful transition
of a cup of hot hot coffee
from one hand to another hand,
the cup only has one handle.

It is inherantly akward,
almost as if it’s intended,
a brief, forced, colaboration
to keep the coffee in the cup.

Contorting to not spill a drop,
Still, clumbsy, after these long years
and a thousand repetitions,
ten thousand hot cups of coffee.

We angle ourselves to the task,
a brief intimate fumbling,
until the cup is handed off,
and the best part of it is gone.

                                     -Still Here

As I stand on the bow of this,...ship,
the wind cuts my body and the rain stings my face,
but my mind does wander from the drudgery of this dull, grey place,
and I find my sweet bonnie, dressed in ribbons and lace.

I stand in awe of this memory,
this perfect example of natural born grace
as she winks at me slyly with a smile on her face,
and i reach for my bonnie dressed in ribbons and lace.

I become involved in this vision,
as I embrace her body and she kisses my face,
imagination runs wild and my heart starts to race,
and the wind cuts my body and the rain stings my face.

                                                                                   -Still Here

It’s hard to know exactly when
memories that had meant so much,
shuffled and shifted in their files,
loosing their firm order and rank.

Dog-eared photos fading amber,
growing unrecognizable,
little be little, mockingly,
labels falling off and mixing.

Dusty and folded, coffee-stained,
they’re all still there, in the shoebox,
ill-maintained and so thread-bare worn,
but they are mine, and I want them.

Dry certainty drip-drains away,
siphoning tears of rueful doubt,
fearful, shameful, irrelevant,
I’ll lie and name it apathy.

                                -Still Here