When I watch movies alone,
sometimes
even something just
mildly sad
makes me cry.

Something that would
make others give
an empathetic nod
or let out an
exasperated sigh
makes me
weep.

I chalk it up to
good writing, good
acting.
Character attachment is
so important.

But really, it
just feels good
to have a reason to
sob like that.

Salty tears and
bitter groans,
go down just a little bit
sweeter
when a sad scene in a movie
justifies their
unsavory appearance.

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.

Vera once told me Mickey Mouse used to be a bisexual
That she can’t have kids
That I should never get old
But if I do
Don’t get diabetes because
Sugar free chocolate doesn’t taste nice

Her hair has that blue hue
Almost purple
It brings out her eyes

Her voice
When it is not overpowered by her walker
Is smooth and sure
Like sandpaper on velvet
She talks like she is already a ghost

I had a dog when I was younger
And he got sick one day
Really he got old
Something about his liver
And he started to bleed out from the inside
I asked the vet if he was in pain
He said no
Basically he got really tired
So he thought it was time to take a nap
And he went to his place
And never woke up
That’s a nice way to die

She smiles at me
I give her change
For the diapers
And the sugar free chocolate
And the 16 ounce bottle of orange juice

I touch her hand
It feels like that one time
Paper tried to be human
And begged you to play along

I played along

I don’t want her to die
But she’s 93
She’s cool with that

She tells good stories
And I know I won’t see her one day
I’m cool with that

It smelled like cheap beer
and stale cigarettes,
and my shoes stuck to the floor.

My head throbbed with an ache
even my ***** tonics couldn't soothe,
and watching you watching her made me
feel short of breath.

I shook her hand and smiled
as I glanced at the hickey on your neck.
You gave me a hug and offered me a cigarette,
and I smoked it in the corner
Alone.

The electricity
in that moment,
when your hand first
brushed past mine,
could have lit up New York City
for the night.

I could have lived in that moment.
Plugged in.
Turned on.

But, in the same way we got used to
light switches and indoor plumbing,
I got used to your touch.

What I wouldn't give
to go back to candlesticks and outhouses
for just one night
so that when you reach for my hand tomorrow,
I won't be jaded by the light that now seems
so perfectly ordinary.

His name was meant
for someone three times his age.
Someone who reaches into
the pocket of his sweater
for little hard candies,
amidst games of shuffleboard
and canasta.

I would have never pegged him
for a Walter or a Leonard.
(Wait, was it Larry?)

But then again,
the way he
sweet talked me into
his bed that night,
I would've never expected to
wake up alone
the next morning.

A post-it note balancing delicately
on the indentations of his pillow;
*Had to go to work. Nice meeting you, doll.