and polished it with
lace. I placed it on my mantel,
above the hearth, next to
the candles. It sat there

looking at me. So, I asked it
for a cup of tea. We laughed and
we wept. I slept if off that night
high as the luminescent

streetlight. But it swelled up
like a bee sting the next morning. I iced it
with a drink I fixed in my kitchen
sink of ***** and olive brine. Then I

penned this line by line, staring
at the cracks I spackled with juniper
and rose hips from the garden. This time,
hardened in a tortoise shell next to the candles.

again. I'll pack it away
like a birthday present. Stuff
it in my drawers, with my bras
and socks. It's like a cookie

crumbling. I lick off all
the frosting. What's left falls on
the floor, to be swept up when I do
the evening chores. It's a locomotive

train leaving the station in the
morning. If I sleep in, I'll miss
it. I must run or it will fly like an eagle
mountain high. But in the running,

I must stop and sniff my garden
blooming or catch a breeze skating
a figure eight on my skin. My face,
a tease of sunlight percolating.

a beam of a golden
stream flickering in the old
winged back chair, the one
with pills from the cat and all

his black hair. The cornflower
blue has faded to grey. But
through my window I see
how sunlight plays. It's the only

life this wooden four legged
seat has had. It sits in the corner
like an impish lad. It moved to this
house after my parents died, along

with the couch and dishes
piled high. But today a dancing
yellow strand ran across its back
when the window was opened a crack.

what the man looks like
now. Does he have a high
forehead and bushy
eyebrows? Is his grey hair

sticking out of his ears? Can he
hear me loud and clear? Suddenly, he
disappeared. Does he have a beer
belly? Do his pants hang low? Has his

gait turned somewhat slow? Does he
still smile like a cheshire cat? Do
all his jokes still fall flat? Has he
retired? Did he move away? Does he

have someone to hold at night? Is he
OK?? Time doesn't stand still. It moves
on like a freight train, leaving puffs of
billowing smoke and looking glass pane.

and they drop out. I count
them every day. Some
leave. Some stay. It's a number's
game. I don't know their

names. I don't know who
they are. Like ashes from a
cigar they tap and flick the brown
rolled stick till I fall inside the

tray. I lie like pieces of
clay in the smoked green glass
in a heaping mass. They water me
with hypocrisy. Upon their cheshire grin

they sputter sarcasm. Spinning webs
of silky lines I'm a fly caught in
my rhymes. Drinking ***** and lime
till I drown the moon in my spilled perfume.

is the spot I crawl into
to get away from the noise
and the fray. Cats cannot
follow me in. They sit outside

chagrin. It's my little nook
where I read my book, as I sip
my cherry wine penning every
line. The only noise I hear is the

whirring of the fan. I'm a velvet
mole burrowing in my hole. It's where
the lilacs bloom, in the floorboards of
my room. The ceiling grows as I

doze in my rocking chair. Cats
peep at me through the hole. They can
not see me as they squint. Blowing
my horn, they take off and sprint.

for quiet streets,
where the only sound is
the wind blowing and
the leaves crunching underneath

my feet? Where I can hear
the robin's song and the doves
splashing in the bird bath
all day long. Or the scraping of

the squirrel's nails climbing
up the old oak tree chasing his
tail? I say the solution is
ridding this earth of people

pollution. I like the little cottontail
wiggling his nose and flapping his ears
back and forth as I peer at him, grazing on
my sweet green grass, that needs

a trim! This is how I'd like time to pass,
in quiet reverie, swinging in my hammock
under a canopy of leaves, as a butterfly
winks at me in a billowing cornflower sky.