men
through closed doors
Yes or no,
it's lost its lure.

I'm not chasing
castles in the air.
My feet are on the ground
and they're staying there.

I’m not chasing
rabbits down a hole.
I've changed the objective,
made another goal.

I'm not chasing
yesterday.
It's gone.
Time to move on!

with me today. All the gold
has turned grey. Marshmallow fluff
of woven shawls has rolled down
lanes like bowling *****. The wind is

whipping me like eggs, in peaks of
white that stands on stage. My eyes are
clouds dripping sweet dew down ruddy
hills I powdered with rouge. The fog

outside is like my bathroom mirror. But I
cannot wipe it off with the cotton
washcloth. And the pelting of the rain
on my windowpane rings through

my ears like a screaming baby's
tears. One, with colic that cannot be
soothed. Like my life, a wrinkled dress
I iron out but cannot be smoothed.

or move forward. I'm growing
older, shedding like the old oak trees
in winter. I'm a piece of cinder
after the fire, a lumpy grey

coal that's tired. I've worked hard
for my fifteen minutes of fame. I've
watched and waited. But it never
came. I threw myself into it,

painting it black and red. I rose before
the sun and clung to it in bed. I fed
it every day and walked it like
a dog. I slogged away my after

noons.  I pruned and watered and
stood over it. I cannot take back
the years or divide them in halves.
If so, what do I have?

with blank faces
questions laced with
ridicule. What do you
do? The answer will

not merit a smile
or a nod. For there is
no applaud for a woman
with tongue and pen

to fill the craving of mercenary
men. The lure of a cornflower sky
and a pair of doves flying by or
a canopy of emerald leaves

dancing in a summer's breeze
doesn't cash in. Or the splash of
a raindrop fallen on my parasol or
the loud "gaaa" of the bluejay's call.

in my roof
and I'm dripping
down on the terra cotta
rouge tile floor. They

place a bucket under
me. But I let go like autumn
leaves from the old oak
tree. They patch my holes

with lies.  But it doesn't stick
like flies to paper. And the sun
just makes me vapor. The ceiling
bears the water stain. And its shape

has no border. Like this life,
in great disorder. So, they paint
over it with course brush strokes,
like covering a zit. But at night

I still drip. And now I’ve grown
mold, a black thick coat of old
age. Like leopard’s spots
don’t change.

in the attic of this head,
taking up the space between
my ears. There's no room
for song or rhyme. There's no time

for rest or sleep. I'm a sheep
without a flock. I'm a holey puppet
sock. I'm a pool of wax. I just can
not relax. I toss like ***** laundry

in the washing machine. But never
get clean. I'm a foggy mirror,
the bearer of yesterday. I cannot
wipe away these thoughts with

a damp cloth. I cannot drown them
in the lime and gin. They’re embedded
in my skin. They stick like tar and feather,
matted to the brain. If they were ***** bath

water I'd pull the plug and drain
the mess out.  But my arms are not
wings. They're chains that cannot reach  
shore. My head's anchored to the ocean floor.

a kindling wood,
not big am I. If I stood up
straight I could pass for
a blade of grass. Splintered

and thin. Lost in a forest
of oaks and pines. Men walk
over me. Covered in brown
fallen leaves from the autumn

deciduous trees. I’m hidden under
the brush. My buds could flower
to plush valentines if I drank rain
water and ate sunshine. But I snapped

in two from the hooves of heavy
men wearing leather shoes. I bent
to break. No bigger than a match
now. But I can catch fire. I’m a pyre

of the black ink night. I light
the sky into a smoky orange ocean
from the motion of rubbing my broken
pieces together.