The bottle of beer is pushed
against the wall.  I breathe in and out.
Tempted...to do what?  To become
intoxicated.  
Wear a lampshade on my head?

What about the morning?  What regrets
will I have? No memories,
just a headache.

The beer calls my name. Drink me, it says.
I say, No thank-you.  Come on, you know
you want to, it whispers.  

I shake my head
and cover my ears. I'm not listening.
I won't be seduced.  I take the bottle
in my hands and pour what's inside
down the drain.
  
That's one for me.  
We'll do battle, again.  
But today victory was mine.

I fell Once
for a banjo
and an Irish tenor

I have this rebel
daughter

Some have said that the bravest thing we do
Is to get up each morning and face the dawn
It may be so. The light is grey and cold
There seem to be no reasons to go on

And yet - the morning sun begins to kiss
The sensitive, delicate springtime leaves
Turning their own hopes to the morning sun
Stretching their chloroplasts awake to life

So even as sunlight embraces the tree
So maybe there will be kisses - we’ll see!

A line cook at Denny’s (must have own pans)
Is an artist, accomplished in assemblage
Compositions of eggs (rather like Cezanne’s)
Toast, bacon, waffles for his decoupage

His gesso is the window layered in steam
Built of reflections and condensation
Hinting at the flowing Interstate stream
Beyond the No Smoking pumping station

The line cook has indeed his pans and plans -
Art, as the muse of cookery commands