"casserole" poems
i. you took the clouds
and dyed them, used droplets of food coloring
so the sky would almost always
look like it was in mid-sunset, aching for the moon.
ii. tomato vines, tomato vines
tangled on you
and you are not even mine.
iii. songs that stopped being beautiful after you left me
iv. they named cottage cheese after the
first place we watched the food
network and
pretended to make a casserole for our family of six.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
I started with my dress,
The white one with the black flowery design.
I added my black scarf, draping it
Casually around my head,
Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting
To what I was dressing up for.
I slipped on my sandals and then
Slipped out the door,
Not slamming it because that felt like
An ending.
I didn’t want another ending.
Walking into the church,
The temperature went up 50 degrees,
And my anxiety went up 100.
I shook hands with the extended family,
Hugged your widow,
And comforted your grandchildren.
I made it through the opening liturgy,
Your favorite hymn, and the obituary.
I even stopped my tears from falling
During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy,
When she started sobbing up there on the altar.
Afterwards, I sat through the meal,
Everything tasting like cardboard in
My mouth as the temperature kept increasing.
Near the end of the night,
When the church was clearing out,
I went back to the food,
Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole
Before I could finally leave this night behind.
Yet when I get there,
The tray is cleaned out,
And there is no more cheesy potato casserole.
That’s when I finally break down and sob.
I didn’t get that last bite of
Cheesy potato casserole.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Her leathered fingers pulling it though from one single taut line, until it forms a flowing tapestry of a quilt.
She forgets. The mail. The laundry. The casserole that burned her house down.
The threads are her memories that have been lost. Each one a moment, a place, a person.
She forgets. Their names.
These threads are the last she will weave.
Family acts as thread. The quilt that catches her as she falls farther from herself into an image as faded as the last photo of her husband.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread Pierce Weave.
She forgets. The quilt.
The daughter finds it, and sees a half spelled out name.
She forgets. Her name.
The daughter brings her mother her memories.
The daughter helps guiding her mother’s hand.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Threads become patches, patches from the cloth.
Thread. Pierce. Weave. Thread. Pierce. Weave.
Mother and daughter weave together an inheritance.
The quilt is finished, a single name. She utters the name she has been trying to find.
She remembers. Her Grandson.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Muffins in the oven
Music in my headset
Smells wafting through the house
Egg and hash-brown casserole waiting to be made
Silent people sleeping mere feet away.
Today is a good day.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
I want that kinda love like the way Obama looks at Michelle
I want that kinda love Like Cinderella in her happliy ever after fairytale
I want that kinda love thats brings you Heaven in the mist of all hell
I want that kinda love thats gonna be there for you at the lowest point in your life when you fail.
I want that kinda love that if you start Looking into thier eyes you will be put under a spell
I want that kind of love that Feeds your mind knowlege until you both feel Faded.
I want That kinda of love that takes you high and gets your spirit Elevated
I want That kinda of love that keeps you going and movatived.
I want That kinda love where you keep on all your clothes but still be exposed like your naked.
I want That kind of love thats scared
Yes that kinda of love.
I want that kinda love Fitting me like a cold hand to warm glove
I want That kinda Love expressed through the lycis that Jill Scott sings,
That kinda love of how much joy and life loves brings
That kind of love Manifesting the many blessings
That India Arie Compassionate kinda love
That kindred Family soul kinda love
That make soul glow, and your spirit Grow kinda love
That poetic hip hop lauren Hill kinda love
That Vivian and Uncle Phil, Jada and Will kinda love
Yes That Kinda Love
As it Washes away my pain and let me dance in your love like the Summer rain
Kissed by a rose kinda love
Let's Cherish the day as if were are lyrics to the music sung by Sade.
Old school R&B; kinda of love
That Smooth Jazz kem music kinda love
That maxwell fortunate kinda love
That Babyface Whip Appeal so I know its real kinda love
That Cliff and Clair Huxtable Honorable and responsible Kind of love.
That Unlimited, Unconditinal, Uncommon Kind of Love.
That Purpose driven,
On a Mission,
Bringing The vision to fruition
kinda love
1 Corinthians 13 kind of love
You'll be My King and Ill be you Queen kinda of love
That Hebrew Royalty
Showing loyalty kinda love
I want that nourish your soul like Grandmas Homemade Turkey and biscuits casserole kinda love.
I want that Acts 6:3 kind of man with faith, prayer, and a plan.
I want a God fearing man who genuinely understands.
I want a Relationship like Boaz and Ruth,
Taking the journey together living in the Truth
I want a love that will fight for me just as Jocob did For Racheal and I promise I'll always be faithful.
Let it be Pleasing to God's sight just as Leah
But yet As wise As Solomon and The Queen of Sheba kinda love
I want that 1 John 3:18 Kind of love
That Unforseen kinda Love
As we Build like Noah and Nehemiah,
But Weep together like Jeremiah kinda of love
I want that Serve like Sammuel
And Pray like Daniel Kinda of love.
That love me like Christ Kinda of Love.
Yes That is my Kinda of love.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding mothers.
Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.
Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.
Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.
These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.
They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.
And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.
Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
I’m thinking of a place
With a monkey and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
Just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
Upon the stamp it wears
And a basement sitting at the top
Of someone else’s stairs
~
A very special place
Where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
Will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
In a bowl of cocoa beans
Where a question is an answer
Or at least that’s what it seems
~
A place where you will notice
That the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
Below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
Wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
As every road will show
~
When you are in this special place
A trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
As it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
Welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
As the morning comes again
~
You’ll see while in this special place
A necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
They always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
Now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
You’ll see that you are loved
~
You will learn this special place
It lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
When we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
That forever will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
There’s a place of perfect simmer
where the flame runs just so high,
never quite to boiling over,
neither still a tepid bath.
At least that’s what you insisted to me
in your frustration at my inability
to find a soft place to land between
pulses of ecstasy and re-heated casserole.
Even still you love me
like a whirlwind loves the dust,
gathering it in by picking it up,
steadying it's spin by collecting debris.
I thought we would make a respectable tornado,
together, instead I find myself
breaking loose from your gentleness
and destroying homes, alone.
If only the weather could tell us whether
we were headed for perfection or destruction.
If only the *** I stir could be a crystal ball.
If only I could love you
as much as I do.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
The things you find when you leave your husband, are not the things you think you'll find.
A missing earring, a couple of quarters, a dime, a nickel and three pennies all stuck behind the makeup.
Those are the things you're happy to see. Those are the safe things. The things that make you think, "oh, well it's a good thing I'm finally cleaning out this cupboard." But then, then you stop. Because you aren't just cleaning up. It's not spring, this isn't a cleaning rampage. This is packing.
This is leaving.
This is the hardest thing you've ever had to do and no one is there for you.
This isn't anyone else's battle to fight.
It's a long time coming, 6 years of tears. 6 years of laughing.
it's the laughing that made you stay.
All the conversations about being so unhappy. All the friends who have said
"Well, if he really makes you that unhappy why don't you leave?"
As if the difference between happy and unhappy is as easy as I want it to be.
Like hopscotch.
Because what if it's all true?
What if the reason you're unhappy is because you are
"An embarrassment as a wife?
Who can't cook.
Who can't clean.
Who dropped out of school.
Who barely has a job.
You're embarrassed 'cause I'm yelling? How do you think I feel?"
If all that is true then leaving won't make you happy.
Leaving isn't going to change anything but your address, marital status and financial situation.
Leaving won't solve the problem, staying will.
Staying, there's no way in hell you're staying. You might have a snowballs chance out there but in here you're already dead.
Slowly every time you remember it isn't true.
I can cook, pasta, casserole, chocolate chip cookies and stir fry.
I make bacon and eggs, pancakes and waffles, coffee and cigarettes.
I can clean, vacuum the house, throw all the q-tips away that are left on the counter, pick up dishes that are not mine all over the house, but if not wanting to be a maid means failure I'll take it.
I'm going back to school, I'm not a good student, college is scary but I'm tackling those demons.
I have a job, I'm a nanny, I'm helping raise someone else's kid because I think that's worth while.
I am not embarrassed by myself. I like who I am.
YOU cannot take that away from me.
So I'm going to leave, for fear of more scars and just because the scars don't show doesn't mean they aren't there.
Because the things you find when you leave aren't found in the make-up cupboard.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
We strolled up
And down
The narrow isle
Weaving in and out
Of shopping cart barricades
And unmanaged children
Butter was 5.99
Grated Cheese 6.99
Tuna; a dollar a can
3 bags of pasta for 5 dollars
Food is indeed
Priceless
For hunger may strike the gut.
But it’s nothing compared to
What it’ll do
To the fragile mind
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
What is the point of trying
when we are bound to fail?
Why do we have that terrible
jolt of hope
when we know our chances
are next to none?
I think it's because
human beings enjoy
pain. Loss. Failure.
We enjoy the thrill of it.
The sting and the burn.
Why?
Because of the pity that we attain.
All we really crave is attention.
Not love or understanding
but for our lives to be the
saddest, the most miserable
of them all so we can achieve
pity.
Is it worth it?
Is it worth going through all
that terrible and gut wrenching
pain that stings in our eyes
and our hearts
just to accept a warm smile
a baked casserole,
or a simple hug?
Are we really
so delusional that we
think this so called
"love" will fill that
empty, dark and deep
void that we carry so
far down inside?
Yes.
We really are.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
We're cooking up a thought stew
A mindful casserole
Compassion the sauce that our hearts impart
sad tales sieved from our souls.
The base of the dish is hope
seasoned with laughter and tears
we stir in empathy to the mix
and we plan to allay crumbs of fear
Our stew has a dollop of knowledge
jugs of experience
ears that are prepped to listen,
Spiced with strength and resilience
But we won't prescribe your recipe
for journeys are made with choice
your life's kitchen tools, your recovery rules,
empowered and mixed using your voice.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
I'm fine.
Just fine.
I can't forget how the neighbor's casserole tastes,
And I can still see his face
But I'm fine.
Just fine.
The plaid shirt still smells like him
And the flowers have long been wilted
But I'm fine.
Just fine.
His picture sits on a dusty shelf
And his body is resting deep underground
But I'm fine.
Just fine.
My chin is up
My arms are open
And I've never felt so alone
But I'm fine.
Just fine.
New to town, New to school
A fresh start, Mom said,
Now remember,
You're fine,
Just fine.
Though this house is unfamiliar
His ghost haunts these halls
The floorboards creak and whisper
The lies I have to continually tell,
"I'm fine,
Just fine."
I watch as my mother tries to fill the part of her soul which my father used to occupy
But I'm fine
Just fine
Another marriage ripping apart at the seams
A man that never felt like "Dad" takes the car
And any memory of normalcy with him
I'm fine.
Just fine.
Packing suitcases again
My life like that of a gypsy's
I want to wake up from this nightmare
But I'm fine,
Just fine.
I punched out all the mirrors around here
Because I hate the wild-eyed creature glaring back at me
Im fine
Just fine
I hate how she talks, this monster of mine,
I hate the lies she tells
"Today was a good day. I made new friends.
And I'm fine.
Just fine."
Crimson puddles gather in my hand
And I'm starting to love how nicely flesh tears
But I'm fine
Just fine
I ponder escaping from here
Every second of every hour
and these lovely little scratched up my arm show it
But really, Im fine.
Just fine.
I don't need anyone to tell me
That everything will be okay
Because it won't.
He's gone.
Taken too soon
too quick,
too sudden.
I don't want your pity.
Dont look at me that way
Shining with tears and fake empathy
Dont look at me that way-
I'm fine.
Just Fine.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
you left.
without a single word
nor a single wave
your smile that should've lingered
much much longer
quickly faded away,
like dust blown,
gone with the wind,
carried on to the vast universe.
"where are you?"
i asked myself
over and over again
i searched for you
went to different corners of the world
just to hear your voice.
alas, i saw you
with another person, another friend
you can cry and laugh on.
i stood there, speechless
wanted to run to you and
say things can be alright again.
but i cannot;
i just left
with tears on my eyes.
you left me.
like a broken toy left by a child
like cold chicken casserole during dinner.
you left me.
but made me believe you'll come back...
come back to make things right again.
you left me.
but you forgot to
say goodbye.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
sushi?
no
combination fried rice?
no
nasi goreng?
no
casserole?
no
shepherds pie?
no
are we getting closer?
maybe
tacos? that must be it?
no
yep. i think i know
shrimps, hot dogs and buffalo wings?
nope. too far away
curry?
closer!
jalapenos, habaneros, chilli?
yep. as hot
but tastes and temperaments
from all mixed.
food channel addict, chef?
nope.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11608284-all-mixed-up-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.Syfk2KZn.dpuf
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
We all have our favourite flavours, be it what you will
Add some stock or a can of soup, anything but chilled
Pick a pack from the shelf,
Carrots,
Celery,
Turnips,
A clove of garlic,
All good for your health
A side scoop of fresh mash, potatoes mixed with butter
Bought from the farmer down the road, Mr Smith with the tedious stutter
Straight to bakery for some bread, to soak up that lovely mix
All the ingredients clumped together, every box it does tick
Served with a feeling of a homemade dish, pretty simple when you know how
Delicious and tender and a joy to eat, especially that winter has come now
It warms you up, puts a glow to your cheeks, feels good and livens the soul
Now dunk that bread and sip that wine,
Delicious with Casserole
JJB
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
My cat’s interest is peaked by anything resembling the
slick plastic crinkle
of the treat bag.
It’s the only time she will approach me.
Besides when I actually have the treat bag.
Then she is a tiger
prowling around the corners of the kitchen.
The depths of her eyes are eerie green pearls
with shiny granite centers
slowly meet mine
that blue ball tinkling around her neck
as she turns her gaze towards me.
She can tell that I’m high.
At the computer
my mother is checking her mail
slowly
clicking
scrolling
click
click
she is hunting
and
pecking.
Mrs. Palese, my third grade teacher
would have been displeased
because we always kept
all our fingers on the keys
asdfjkl;
I think I’m one off
Now she’d be staring at me sternly.
A stern look.
Her eyes are just pools that my memory
can not fill
but I remember her hair
and I remember the time her husband died
and we each made a casserole everyday
as if lasagna would hold her at night
and tell her she looked beautiful in the morning
before she brushed her hair
or washed her face.
I remember she gave me my first communion.
I would get another stern look for my
Lack Of Capitalization.
But I would care just as much
as I did when that wafer
hit my lips.
I’ll give you a guess.
My mother is still checking her e-mail.
It almost seems impossible that she
is concocting real words
with that slow ebb and flow of fingers.
But finally,
the sun is almost up,
she is done
See you tomorrow, sweetie
she whispers,
like she could wake anyone up
because it’s already tomorrow
and she’s getting confused.
The quick rattle of pill bottles
and she’s gone.
And maybe I
the time
stretched
a
little
because
there are still five hours
until dawn.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
- bring a book with you everywhere; you never know when you're going to be waiting longer than you intended.
- remember to take time out of your busy day to pause for a few seconds. listen to that clock tick. breathe. you're alive. the world is spinning around you and deep beneath your feet lies a fiery core. breathe. you're alive.
- you are worth so much more than you think and don't you dare settle for anything less.
- walk out of your home with open arms, instead of folded arms, because it's much easier to catch whatever life throws at you with open arms.
- remember to take breaks. you're human, not a robot.
- it's okay not to do anything you need to do. we all need those days. don't feel guilty for staying in bed when you should have been doing something important. again, you're human. it's okay.
- smile at strangers.
- read more. it could be the back of your shampoo, or an advert on the train. just read.
- sometimes you won't know what to do. this doesn't make you weak.
- remember, sometimes you won't get back the amount of love you gave away. you must be understanding. you must be willing to move on.
- lastly, please remember to keep trying with that casserole. one day, you'll get it right... (or near enough edible, anyway).
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Like a speed limit,
Age 55 is a reminder,
A geriatric mnemonic,
Telling you to take it slowly.
Safe to say,
Most of us Baby-Boom geezers
Walk around half the time
Wondering how one gets laid,
“Hooks up”—
As our grandchildren say--
Gets laid behind & inside this
Asylum sanctuary?
Manning the ramparts,
Those Wackenhut stiffs
Are there for a reason.
Overt, direct ****** overtures
Strictly verboten (ver•bo•ten).
Yet, the silver-haired sireens
Crave company,
As in “keeping company,”
An ancient idiom for
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni!”
But you’ve got to take it slow at
Del Webb Over-55 America,
A multi-state lunatic asylum,
Where a preponderance of
Single silver-tress foxes,
Having “lost their husband,”
Somewhere, at some point,
Some recent but forgotten,
Alzheimer’s moment along the trail,
They comb the daily obits,
Hunting prey, newly widowed men,
Fresh casserole recipients &
Crypto-pepperoni buddies.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Television cooks rarely do
Fish, chips and mushy peas
With spotted **** for afters.
No
It’s got to be
Creamy coconut curry
With Balingud Zalud
Soaked in Chimichurri sauce.
Or Jalapena Lime Slaw
Accompanied by spicy Sriracia mayo
And Rachero Sauce.
Plus a side-dish of fluffy soufflés.
The starter is a vibrant veggy ratatouille
With sashimi, tacos and tortillas.
But then there’s always vemuelli noodles,
Pommes frittes
Teriyehi
Thana messala
And Enchilada Casserole
Covered in Romesco Sauce
Or Hollandaise
With Falafels and couscous.
Then Neapolitan Ice Cream souffled Erotica.
All impossible of course.
But don’t we love
The sheer seduction of those Words.
Paul Butters
© PB 28\4\2020.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 7:25 AM UTC
I have come to a conclusion.
We are in an endless cycle.
We wake up and think about food.
We eat sugary cereals for breakfast
so we go to school or work thinking about food.
Afterschool, we watch food and beauty advertisements
that make us feel bad about ourselves,
so what do we do?
Shop for food and clothes to make us
"feel better" and to "fill the void."
After shopping, we get tired and watch television
where we, yet again, shovel even MORE food
into our lifeless pieholes.
We also don't want to cook anything,
so our meals consist of Campbell's soups, frozen pizzas and leftovers of whatever casserole is in the house.
Even after eating dinner, we are tempted to eat more,
so we have DESSERT!
Because of our constantly on-the-go lifestyle, half the time we are not even conscious of what we're eating.
Ironically, yet predictably, we go to sleep thinking about what we will have for breakfast the next day.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
There’s a place of perfect simmer
where the flame runs just so high,
never quite to boiling over,
neither still a tepid bath.
At least that’s what you insisted to me
in your frustration at my inability
to find a soft place to land between
pulses of ecstasy and re-heated casserole.
Even still you love me
like a whirlwind loves the dust,
gathering it in by picking it up,
steadying it's spin by collecting debris.
I thought we would make a respectable tornado,
together, instead I find myself
breaking loose from your gentleness
and destroying homes, alone.
If only the weather could tell us whether
we were headed for perfection or destruction.
If only the *** I stir could be a crystal ball.
If only I could love you
as much as I do.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
My friend caught me laughing whilst crying.
He said "umm are you going insane?"
"Dear friend, have a seat.
Let me tell you this funny thing about pain.
When you're hurting your senses swirl
And sooner than later everything sounds the same.
Like, "I love You" sounds just like "There's someone else."
The roses they bring you are bewitching, but lean in and a stranger's scent is all you'll smell.
I mean, yes they'll carress you like it's the first time, but your replacement is all you'll feel.
Confusion will paint illusions, soon all happy sights your mind is refusing & you can't see what's real.
& taste? Dear friend, The ultimate bitter is taste.
It's like collapsing & dropping your time casserole; all you can do is stare down, what a waste.
So I know you're confused as you stare at my bright smile as my eyes are running.
But to be honest with you, I'm puzzled, I can't quite decipher if it hurts or its funny."
We're all one heartbreak away from insanity.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
i can picture it
dusty desert roads
old motels when the
sky opens up and the
holes in the tent leak
the empty rooms and
bare mattresses of a
creaky single wide
a patch of wall where
a cross once hung for
so long the wallpaper
holds its faded image
payphones and
diner booths
card games and
cold pews
*(sunbeams dreamily
landing in your eyes)*
i can almost taste
cola flavored slushies
cans of beans and
cigarettes and coffee
and smell burnt pancakes
egg casserole the way grace's
mom made it at home
secondhand smoke a bonfire
made from incense and an
abandoned white church
i can hear the songs
the laughter tears and
screams to heaven over
rumbling rubber tires
i know the way they
talk and theorize
argue and laugh
cry and pray
i've felt it before
somewhere here
and there in
twinges of time
but nobody ever claimed
you could wander the
world in one day or that
writing a gospel was easy.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC