reality is all that exists.
context is the curtain edge of
the proscenium.
the play is
you and I
performing every day.
ovations and uproar
are all just noise in the end.

her kisses
are hot cocoa, sweet on my lips.
her arms
a fireplace, holding warmth between us.
her eyes
are christmas lights, glowing in the cold.
her love
is winter dust, a most beautiful thing to hold.

My niece
made me bangle
of letters, stars, unicorns|
and colored beads

Then it hit me
that's her poem to me
a set of random things
that sit beautifully
side by side
around in a circle

and I noticed that
that's the first time
someone wrote
a poem
about
me

the truest tragedy
of all poetry
is the fallacy
that every line you write
must be saddening.
irony is the counterculture of poetry.
i write death
to the community
and without a breath
the work is granted validity.
i write life
to the people
and without strife
my work is deemed feeble.

a poem is not a feeling
it's a moment.
there is no emotion
there is no reeling
it's not hopeless
it's not devotion
it's not healing.

your poem is now.

i'll rip you out of my chest
but keep you in my smile.
the tears i gave you left
your laugh wants to stay awhile.
your eyes were the best
i've had them since i was a child.
you talked to death
now our distance is beyond miles.

coffee rings stain the tablecloth
empty creamer pods pile up by the silverware.
the old man finishes his omelet off
while his grandson rocks in his chair.
the new dads outside smoke and cough
avoiding their wives' disapproving glare.
the waitress sits me at a tabletop
and I take in the fullness of the air.
the light in the room takes me like a moth
a moment fleeting is still a moment worth the care.
I eat breakfast every Saturday at Roth's
this diner where all our stories are shared.