These pancakes don't taste like they did,
When Mr. Edwards brought her here.
The waitress pours more coffee, says She'll ask the chef but doesn't think
He's changed the recipe in years.
I'll take 'em back, Ms Edwards.  Try
A different breakfast, if you like.
No thanks, she says, don't take 'em back.

Two years now.  Even coffee's not
The same as then, tastes weaker like
It's watered down, no better than
The instant kind she makes at home.
She eyes her phone--no messages--
And nowhere else she wants to go.

She's got a new plan, invented
On a cold morning in April,
A pilgrimage to Tennessee,
Just west of Nashville, where she knows
Some people who are close enough
To take her in, with two kids now,
Long enough to get on her feet,
Find work, apply for benefits.

She tells her daughter to be strong,
To make her little brother think
This move is their great adventure,
Which it is, in its own fashion,
Is freedom, an old idea
She almost forgot.  She's ready.

This late winter snow,
Upon the yellow jonquils,
Forecasts your return.

On this cold afternoon,  T.V.
Has ****** & Daytona.  You
And I are close enough you could
Come over, yet I don't guess you
Think that's a good idea, nor
Do  I, but thinking isn't all
We do.  We've lost our instinct
And our earthly home, companion,
Lost the rhythm of the slow dance.
I'm not stopping, not this evening
Or tomorrow, will yet present
Myself, still so lightly adorned
That I have said nothing, nothing
At all by my scant appearance.
Things don't happen for a reason,
Not one we don't invent.  Free will
Is out of fashion.  All the new
Philosophers agree on that,
Though fundamentalists dispute
Among themselves such hardshell creed.
I long to taste your skin again.
Come give me time, bring everything.

Am I the last man thinking words
Can overcome your hesitance,
May circumvent your maiden steel,
Too polished by your fingernails?
I'll drop your walls like Jericho,
If syllables can keep the beat,
And slide their music into you.
I'll wake your rhythm, legs askew.

Your skepticism's understood;
Good men are rare, a lot's been said,
So you go disappointment prone,
Distrusting things that you've been told,
Inhaling lines and downing wine,
Forgetting us, sublime--supine.