She controls her laughter,
lets it slip from the edge of her mouth,
the corners of her lips lift ever so slightly,
then, she makes a sound,
seamlessly, her fingers graze my thighs,
smoothly, her eyes meet mine,
and in her eyes, I see my reflection—
aflame, abashed, and fiery,

She is the answer I’ve scoured the world for,
and yet, she, herself, remains a mystery,

Ah, I see,
She controls her laughter
as easily as she controls me.

a leaf falls onto the bench,
completely mute. you pick
it up, begging it to make a sound.
i wonder why, it won't work wonders;
i wonder why, has it fallen down,
i wonder why, are we all
just leaves, now
on the ground?

She likes toy soldiers with mustaches
and rolling camels from newspapers
(that way she has something to read when she smokes)

She likes spin the bottle at recycling centers
and starting arguments over produce
(she prefers steamed vegetables, you see)

She adores staycations in someone else's house
and dinner theatre for breakfast
(a little Hamlet and eggs)

She likes every other Tuesday
and clocks with only minute hands
(it's more her speed)

She likes hunting for change in penny arcades
and five & dimes
(but not dollar stores...go figure)

She likes soda crackers (but not soda)
She likes beer nuts (but not beer)
She likes wine cozies (well, you know the rest)

Slowly Drifting through an empty space
Came from water to become human race
The light from the suns had called me
There was urge in me to come out of the sea

Sleeping on a green island in a blue field
I showed my light, It was all to you revealed
Together we are looking suns at night
To leave the island, we grow the wings for flight

black as the night sky
brown as flapjacks buttered and syrupy
peach as a peach farm tree
red as my son’s skinned knee
thick as an alligator
thin as a high-school waiter
acned and wrinkled
old and pickled
fresh as a baby’s bottom
fallen as the leaves in autumn
every mole, rash and blush
is lush with life
and hasn’t been touched
by a doctor’s knife
aging isn’t flawless
it’s beautiful

I’ll never see the daffodils again.
They come up only in the spring
And I’ll be somewhere that I hate.

They’ll be a surprise for who lives there
A bonus for fixing up the place -
A victim of benign neglect.

I wonder if the Lilly bulbs will bloom again
Special gift, enjoyed and planted by the wall
Tended well. in hopes of more red glory.

Will the roses thrive under better care
And bloom in cycles all year long
To perfume the air for someone else.

The mouses in the memory bower
Will sleep in peace without their markers
And Poco’s stone will go with us.

How much will change - how much will not
When new eyes glance around the rooms
And measure the back garden.

Will everything be taken down
So shiny new can take it’s place
And relegate its memory to a closet

There is no way that I can know
I’ll have to wait and see and hope
That some small touch of me remains
In walls that warmed me for thirty years.
ljm