Wandered lonely as a loon
With a  baked bean tin
And a silvery spoon
Kings and queens would
Bow to me
I was the happy,chirpy enemy
Singing all dancing happy chap
I'm a nuclear bomb in a bowler hat
They would cry with laughter
Seemingly having fun
I was the jester holding the gun
Cyanide I was, they felt the love
Laughter and happiness became like a glove

My new friend
I met a sweet snail three years ago
She arrived on my door step today
Looking a bit sleepy, oh so sluggish
So we didn't go out and play
We watched a film we ate some eats
No salt please on our lettuce leafs
Her name is Michelle such an elegant snail
We kissed goodbye and she left with a trail

I want to be a fish
Learn to drive a tank
I want to be a turnip
And become a tiller in a bank
I want to be a lampost
And work down the sewer
I want to be an e mail
Because elephants are getting fewer
I want to be a chicken
So I can cross the road
I want to be the difference
between a frog and a toad
I wanna be a spice girl
And be able to sing
I want to castrate chuck berry
And strangle his ding a ling
I want to be an allotment
I think I've lost the plot
I need to be taken aside
And just humanely shot

Is it to make more of the man
If he rides in the back of a jeep
Not drawing attention to himself
He thinks solely with the wind
And the sounds beneath his feet

He wondered as she walked by
Would a poor woman reject him
She didn’t smile at his gaze
She wanted more than that
He was judged by the street

He wanted to buy her a dress
Any color, with shoes to match
Would she want to wear it
Or would she only remember
She did not own a silk sheet

She smiled only to be polite
She gathered leaves for her drink
She knew how not to grind them
He told her they would be served
But the wheel that rolled was fleet

She wanted someone who knew
Only her name and a cross awaits
He couldn’t believe her calm
She did not care for attention
Their worlds could never meet

She offered to pray for him
She said empathy is not love
She had lived the real all her life
Still she admired the loud bird
Who sat humbly in an old jeep

Here you go again
With your in.
Lackluster
No creativity.
Tiresome
With no brevity.

Your remedy to your mess.
Winged,
But squawking in your nest

Down-feathers are long past.
Covered
In oversight that clearly lasts.

You're a clown with runny make up.
Comedy is your genre.

Still I visit
Like a celebrity in their home town

Still I Linger
Like sharpenal from an old battle wound

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.