I'm the pillow you
threw off the bed
because you thought
you wouldn't need me.
Little did you know
that in thirty seconds
you would pull me
off the floor to
support your back
so you could lean over
your smelly handmade
journal pages to write
this short silly poem.

Don't be so naïve to think
you don't need me.
Don't throw me aside
in arrogance thinking
you'll be more comfortable
without me.

Each night as I sleep
a different memory
fades out of existence.
These memories of mine
aren't as real as they once were;
the time I brought my dog
into class for show-n-tell;
the trees in the front yard
of my childhood,
all potential casualties
of my next night of sleep.

I wonder what passed away
into the abyss of forgetfulness
last night as I dreamt about
that serial killer
chasing me down;
maybe it was the names
written on the walls of the
concession stand in my
Intermediate School,
or the costume I wore for
Halloween when I was ten.

It seems as though these
memories of mine were
real once, but those days
have faded away
into memory, one day to be
forgotten when I walk
into work in my underpants,
only to spring out of bed
in a cold sweat.

you're lost in your own world
is that where you'd rather be?
step out for a moment
come walk with me

a hostage of your own thoughts
why don't you let them be?
think what I think for a moment
let go, breathe free

you won't look me in the eyes
see what I want you to see
stop for a moment and look
there's just you and me

I don't know where you're heading
you say it's destiny
slow down a bit for love
come walk with me

Why can't life be this?
I asked my wife as
we sat underneath our
white polyester blanket,
snowflakes gently striking
the pavement and our
gray-blue mailbox outside.

Why can't every day be Saturday
when you and I awake to
each other's smiles?
We would hold each other
and be thankful that we
have nowhere to be
this quiet afternoon.

We would find purpose
in cleaning the laundry,
in washing the floors,
and we wouldn't need to worry
about any bills or those
leftover to-do lists waiting
at work from the week before.

I'd like to imagine this
is what Heaven is like,
no worries, or cares, or toil;
just relaxing each day
with a chestnut and clove candle
warming our senses
as we sit in silent contentment.

The pain of life
is a contraction
of a new season
ready to be born.
The joy of life
will soon be laying
skin-to-skin
upon your chest.
There is hope in life's
deepest suffering.

If I were a painter,
I'd paint you the hundreds
of marigold leaves
hanging on the branches
of our one-lane street.

I'd color the canvas
with the image of myself
blowing air on the flames
of our Sunday-night fire,
watching it dance to life.

If I were able to
mix the oils just right,
I could shine a flashlight
through the fence to find
the deer as it rustled in the bushes.

If I had the finest Parisian brushes,
I'd seal our memories forever,
hanging them in rustic frames
on the walls of our home
where they could be

remembered daily
rather than just
once-in-a-while
when the campfire smoke
finally jogs our memory.