Bed sheets labeled wrinkle-free,
skin stroked
with lotions from
bottles stamped,
“reduces age-lines.”

Crevasses form
and crows’ feet caress eyelids;
folds spread
as little rivers
from her mouth.

New lotions,
more massaging
feed her desire
for perfection. Her glance
catches flaws others ignore.

Love falls short.
Heat from her lover’s body
warms her palms;
fetid kisses barely
brush her lips.

Wrinkle free love;
another misnomer.

Silent, vigilant
Small fish glide through the water
Aware others prey

There are walls waiting,

crumbling

as pockmarks of decay

beside sidewalks

along motor cities’ streets.

There are terminal

and forsaken structures

colonized

with ungrateful squirrels

that abandon

attics for creaking kitchens

with corroded sinks.

Un-shoveled snow melts

slow on walkways

unfamiliar with worn heels

or rubber soles.

There are forlorn relics

patient and waiting

for us to join them.

They heard she was a poet
who shocked the open mic
Friday nights with tight skirts
and loose words
that slid off her teeth
over her whiskey breath.
Truck drivers,  
who rode hard,
daily listened
for ******* screams
and honking horns,
came to see her. They
balanced on rustic chairs,
drank *** and Cokes,
and hoped she wanted
a ride to Reno.

She heard they were drivers
with sharp eyes and taut *****
beneath blue denim.  
She didn’t mind
weather beaten beards,
calloused hands or that
they would leave in the morning.  
She was a poet who
gathered words from interludes
among pillows and sheets that
aroused tomorrow’s verse
of wanton words and enticing skits.

Her brow furrows
 hard
as if etched on flint

deepens gradually

as his heels click

in cadence toward the door.

She feels unworthy of his love

but knows he will return.



When love comes like a mist in the night

accept it as a nourishing dew.
Know that mornings may

present a threat of rain
to capture the mist

only to send showers later.



No one earns love,

love comes to be consumed

like grass absorbs

the offering of the morning.

Knee joints pop
With sounds of aging
As his haunches settle
Into the resilience of hemp.
He is seeking a soft silence,
Reverence for universal truths
And a communion with the
Silence of the moment.

Thoughts bounce through his mind
Like static on a distant radio station.
Memories of past silences come  
Like a prairie wind.  

Soft silence settles around him
While his mind tries to forget
What harshness silence has nourished
During his lifetime.