Half-waking, half-sleeping, half tomorrow;
Apollo’s beams dance on half a face,
I mourn the morning, as only borrowed,
The day shines but partially on our embrace.

Ignoring that honest solar trail,
From time and space I remove my heart;
Too inconstant and too apt to fail,
Too rapturous upon each bright new start.

Yet I know, of course, that the sun will rise,
And with each new dawn our parting advances,
Never again to see the sun in your eyes,
I hope to remember fleeting glances.

Ephemeral spheres of moments together
Burst like stars and then are gone forever.

1.
Because you are lonely too. And you know what it's like to spend hours waiting for a notification that someone values what you say. Verification that some of the people in your box of friends still walk through your forests waiting for trees to fall.

2.
Because you didn't understand the metaphor and so it must be deeper than your reach. Because people who appreciate poets are more approachable than poets themselves, and are far less likely to spend Saturday nights alone.

3.
Because the words look like family. Because when they pass your teeth it's as if your heart joins in chorus, and their syntax wraps cozy round your shivering bones. Because their eyes look like yours and because they know how to cut you, but don't.

4.
Because you are in love. And if a raccoon tore a hole in your garbage bag, ate last week's green chocolate cake, and returned it to your porch shortly after, you would see poetry in it. Because poems look like pies through rose colored glasses and it's really hard to find a bad pie.

5.
Because you hate this poem but won't tell me. Because our relationship hangs on your approval, and you know I'll expect you to make me feel ok about writing this. To tell me people don't appreciate real art anymore, and that's why no one else has responded.

6.
Because it doesn't rhyme, and there are numbers separating the stanzas that force you to read the last line slowly. Because it references Facebook and so it's something you can relate to. Because it's cliché enough to be memorable, and a little out of the box but still inside mine.

7.
Because you know why I wrote it. And you know that seeing your name beside it will be all the consolation I need. Because their is loyalty in a signature that even our forefathers acknowledged, and because it's the best way you know to take sides.

8.
Because the last thing you liked was McDonald's French Fries and you're looking to diversify your portfolio.

9.
Because you want me to remember you. Because we haven't spoken in years outside of birthday wishes and silence is a hard habit to break. Because neither of us is sure who the apology belongs to but because you're willing to take a step on faith.

10.
Because you know the impact an echo can have on its target. Because we all scream from stages built with fearful hands. We carry microphones in our pockets on nights too quiet to sleep and purge our lungs of their angst. Because this cave can not be empty. Because words are not like family unless they are spoken by someone we love. Because some nights all I need is a name to believe I still have my own.

The hot dogs blossomed, split in the boiling water.
Plumes of beef stock and corn syrup billowed
toward the surface.
6:00 p.m. and the anchorwoman addressed the living room.
Three dogs for Dad in Dad's recliner, one dog for Mom
in Mom's recliner, one dog extra in case she changed her mind,
and two for me.
Yellow mustard. Relish. A dead ****** in standard definition.
"Did you do something different to these hot dogs?" Dad asked.

"Is it bad?" Mom asked.

"It's just different," he said.

But even that was the same. The same question. Same response.
Every Wednesday from '93-2005.

At 6:15, Dad would go blow his nose in the bathroom.
Put on a pearl snap button-down.
At 6:20, Mom would tell me to put on slacks.
"Good Christian men don't wear shorts to church."
That's right. But I didn't have the heart to remind,
the best of them wore dresses.

Mom would drive. Dad would be in the passenger seat.
He perpetually directed her to stay as far to the right side
of the gravel road as possible.
"One of those baboons will come flying over the hill.
Middle of the road. And if you don't get over,
we'll all die. Or at least a couple of us."

We'd get to church.
And all the old women
with their purple hair and ill-fitting
bracelets of golden-colored metal,
named after precious gemstones (Ruby, Pearl, etc., etc.),
would kiss my cheek.
We'd sit three rows back from the front.
And as the song leader began "Jesus Hold My Hand,"
all I could think about: dead hookers and hot dog juice.