whatever I write
it’s usually at night
with a scotch
most of it botched

writing on the bus
woman sitting next to me
says how can you write
with all the noise and the traffic
I say but that’s what I write
about     ..

Sunlight crawls along my window
with cat paws and purring ice.

Even the queen of daylight
prefers shades of green to
the moldy gray clouds
hanging from her eyelashes.

It is ironic that a step out my door
there is no warmth in the golden orb’s
caress, yet a wink through glass
is as warm as the blanket I dream beneath.

Too cold to do more
than reach for imagination
I watch a small spider make
its trek across a windowpane and wonder
if the silk threads of its web are
a vain attempt to knit a sweater for the sun.

She saw a face
in her dream.

When she woke,
she remembered
the face.

“Strange,” she thought,
and decided to paint it
before she forgot.

Still, she looks around,
wondering
if it were
a real person.

who doesn’t like eating out
it beats cooking
and there’s no washing up

Sometimes I am crazy,
sometimes I am funny.
Sometimes I talk silly,
sometimes I’m a silly goose.

My mood swings
like different hues of blue.

I am all that—
and a little bit more.

Like it or not,
this is what I am.

No matter how far ahead

I travel the road of life,

I will always look back—

to remember

what love felt like.

I wished to visit

the Louvre

to see the Mona Lisa painting.

So, I decided

to book a trip to Paris.

Then a thought

crossed my mind:

Is the real Mona Lisa

on display?

The heart said yes,

the mind said no.

It is far too precious

to be out in the open.

The real one must be

kept hidden safely

in some secure,

secret vault.

So, I decided instead

to book a trip to Agra—

to see my favorite Taj Mahal.

At least I know

it’s the real one.

Since you are gone,

I just talk to myself.

That way,

no one can

hurt me anymore.

the city is full of people
knowing where they’re going
to continue to belittle
the rest of us who just don’t      ..