I like the ocean
as it mixes with the sand
to form a cast of my foot
where I stand. It molds

in-between my toes, around
my heel and under my arch,
kinda like a paste of water and
cornstarch. As I lift my ankle

I see the impression of a
size seven. And another just like
it, and another and another,
leaving a trail behind me. As I look

out over a cornflower sea
I feel the cool, soft sand massaging
my feet. I feel like the leader of
a band. I don't need a man

to hold my hand. This walk will
be a memory. The footprints will
wash away as the tide rolls in.
Nothing here can stay.

when his cell
played her song as her name
displayed on his screen
to pick it up. He delayed

checking his messages. And all
her emails sat in his in-basket
left unopened, taking residence like
a list of presidents. He didn't think

she'd not show, like she had no place
to go, only to his house. He didn't think
as days turned into weeks and not
a peep of her there. And dust bunnies

made their home in the corners
of her chocolate velvet chair, as autumn
closed in, with crimson, yellow leaves
falling to the ground, billowing in the

breeze. He didn't hear a sound
from her. Not even a tease of the
cheesy smile she once wore. He didn't think
as the numbers on his calendar changed
that it was strange she hadn't called. Or when

was the last time he laid eyes
on her petite figure? Or jumped in her
laughter. Or see the sun bounce off the
long honey highlights in her hair? Or how

her perfume filled the air with lilacs in
his room. Or the plume of her thrift-store
rainbow dress. Now that the old burly
oak tree with painted leaves in emerald

green standing outside his windowpane
left a stain of her dancing pirouettes around it.
Her running in the rain along with her mascara.
Confound it!

I was mile high like Denver
when he called me from Boulder. So older
than I. Didn't known he was a Picasso,
painting me in cherries jubilee. And so,

I melted inside of
his phone. With the juices still
running I was shunning echoes of
the woman calling to him, mother of

all his kids. The one he wouldn’t
leave me for. Those cherries have
pits. But I've learned how to spit them
out. Lit with the brandy and tasting

like candy he flambéed me. But he
also kept a little French Suzette in his
closet, for the nights he preferred a dish
a little more light.

my head floats off my body. I'm in
a board meeting. I'm out the
door. I'm taking notes. Sweeping
the floor. Checking off lists

of things to do. The taste in my mouth
of last night's beef stew. My tummy
is jumping. Must be gas. The clock is
ticking. Will this pass? The sun is rising

out my bedroom window. The ceiling
fan blowing the dust below. Counting
the minutes till he is finished. Adding in
sound while I'm diminished. Flattened under

his weight. Riding my tracks
like a long freight. Drying up like the
Mojave Desert. This is just a sport
before my morning chores.

with an old dish cloth
as I do the plates when I wash
them after dinner, till the remnants
of Salisbury steak grow thinner. Or sweat

that runs off like a trough
down my nape from the steam
in the bathroom. Wipe him with
a tissue as I do the mist on the

mirror. I dot the glass. And a little
spot grows clearer. But it fills back up
again. Till a breeze from the window
blows in. He's ***** matter stuck in

the groove of my sneaker. So,
as I move, I tread it into the house. Spreading
it like a disease. And the stench of it
knocks me out. But even ****

that’s smeared like shaving cream in
peaks of brown and green
can be wiped off the floor. But not
the memory I neatly store.

climbing on my bathroom scale
making me wail
in shock
the falling
of bonds and stocks
breaking limits on my speedometer
the mercury
shooting up my thermometer
on store price tags
they rise so high
and through the years
how fast they fly
but through the night
they flash at me digitally
the book reviews
rating me in stars
all the burning candles
on your birthday cake
reminding me
how old you are
this expanse
on the tag
in the back of my pants
if I could rid myself
of digits
a life with no limits

and the smell of rubbing
alcohol. Rows of beds and
machines that beep. How does
a young boy

with such noise sleep? Tubes
in throat, arms and legs. This
is how we live every day. Paging doctor
so and so with a color code. Stuffed

monkey from the gift shop
lays propped up on the blanket. She hasn’t
tanked yet. But she’s on her way. Looking out
the window into the smog. Eying people

rushing off in a fog, all unaware
of her sleeping in a chair. A scream from
the room next door. Yesterday’s apple
core turning brown. A visit from the circus clown.