Recycled conversations
won't ever save the world.
We need to stop recycling
and use more one-use words.

Sometimes
it's about pushing through.

More often
it's more about
timing the next turn

or taking the next bend

with a tight grip
braced against the rain.

Driving your son
is like dispensing a truth serum,
extracting revelation

Driving your daughter
is like tuning in to an ongoing drama
with you a minor player

Don't be so quick to judge.
Not until you've walked a mile
(or at least for a while
in the park)
in my soft bedded,
anatomically shaped,
suede mules.

Then you'll appreciate
the air with which
I bear my superiority
with barely a hint
of complaint.

coats are discarded, but the hall hooks stay empty
*****-top wine is opened without ceremony
fingers are favored over tooth picks without apology
conversations touch past pain and current joys effortlessly

shared memories are shared and new ventures discoursed
loved books are returned (unread) or offered
repeated yawns are ignored, reconnection preferred
until later… and dark rain greets their departure.

I watched my name
emerge from my pen.
It seemed strange
that there was so much ink
left at the end
of my letter.  

I watched my name
emerge from my pen.
So much ink
left at the end.

My name emerged.
So much ink
left at the end.

My name emerged.
So much ink.

I leave myself all over the place
then retrace my steps
and while I try to collect myself
there's pieces I forget