"sourdough" poems
Cake
You can eat it too!
My frying pan
Is half empty
Hate me
Because I am good
No!
Because I am great!
Michelan Stars
Trips to Mars
Candy bars
Mason jars
Drunk I am
Said the can
To the packet
Of ketchup
Baker's square
I worked there
Line cook nook
Splatters shook!
The kitchen man
Burns the water
The ******** fan
Yearns for slaughter
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
deli meats and cheeses
i look past them at soft crinkling smiling faces
and i drink my java
warms up my hands and ******* and i sweat
in my coat
walking up and down the isles
I see trail mix
and sunchips
and sweet sweet sweets
the yummies
that i adore
chocolates
especially
dark chocolate cocoa orange cherry strawberry berry red brown
it's the sweetness and saltiness
of summer time ice cream
It's the cold crispness
of carrots and snap peas
It's the warmth and comfort
of big muffins and a plate of hashbrowns
at Perkin's
after a stressful morning
spice smells
of pad tai noodles
sourdough bread, fresh baked
crunch crunch on the outside
soft hot squish
inside
(save that part for me, i eat them separate
-you laugh)
how many times did we
laugh
about how you ate that bug
and we were never picky
*cherries
all those cherries.*
we ate nutella
on bread,
washed it down with cold organic orange juice
from a cafe neither of us had ever heard of
and tofu
tofu tofu
always cooked perfectly (we wondered how they do it)
(i still don't know)
chocolate, melting slowly
"you missed some."
-------just an excuse to kiss me.
i giggle
peanut m&m;'s
turn my tongue colors.
Watermelon at a potluck
wedding cake
cheesy potatoes
and an extra helping of bread
(we laughed so hard at the white bread, squished into a cube)
ruby red
made you wince
I drink it straight from the bottle
and smile
remembering every kiss
that tasted of grapefruit
in that tent
every kiss that tasted of salt
from the eggs?
or from the sweat on your lips
the sweat on your lips.
we kiss more
i smile into your lips
i remember that, especially
we never got sick of each other
nutella on everything, now.
especially on s'mores
i smile with every memory
i put my hands in pockets, the cold rushes to meet my face
in the ice cream aisle
i cool down as i graze
through the tubs or corn syrup and double churned triple churned
cream with extra fudge
sherbet
i chuckle to myself
memories memories
of sitting up high
with you,
sand on our toes
chocolate caramel fudge coffee
on our tongues
love
in our hearts
you remember.
the taste of that summer
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
All of a sudden,
something is aloof
The air becomes stale,
like the bread of sourdough;
you refuse to walk through
the garden overgrown, infested with
insecurities and a plethora of doubt
I believed you to be
a recipe I figured out
I'm left teetering on my toes
as vehemence in me grows
and the mystery within you
is unfortunately never shown
Riddle me your chivalry's
whereabouts as of late
You're good at concealing
all that you're feeling
I remember when you were sweet,
like the aura we would create
like the donuts you brought me;
a dozen sugar-coated holes and
one lone blueberry
My insides have been fried
in a hot mess called love,
and a dozen-sugar coated holes
from you my dear, was
considerably enough
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
All eggs were in one basket,
so no wonder you're reserved ever since they broke.
Shells are messy and hard to work with.
She gave you eggs the last time. But I'm not her.
Let's not give each other eggs.
Let's give ourselves bread instead.
Because all your bread in a basket sounds warm,
picnics in parks on sunny days warm.
Or fresh out the oven still steaming hot.
Frosted and sweet, or sourdough. All your bread in one basket,
there's so much to work with.
Even cold bread, and stale bread.
Because at least when molding bread falls out
of your metaphorical basket you can pick it up
in one piece and put it back.
Or make more. You can fix it.
Eggs aren't that easy. They shatter. They're messy.
So my dear let's not be eggs. Let's be bread.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
I remember the way they used to hang their art so proudly with me. Messy crayon drawings of pure imagination. I saw them sneak popsicles from the freezer when no one was looking. I watched the plants on the windowsill grow, reaching for a sky on the other side of the pane. They cooked meals in that room and stained me with the flavor of bubbling tomato sauce, baked sourdough, and the gentle simmer of potpourri. There was magic sometimes, in the youthful grins over candles and the silent wishes they made. There were evenings of sharp, acidic vinegar and boiling eggs they dyed for Easter. There were arguments: yelling, screaming and crying—the growing pains of a family. There was violence too, tempers flaring, heads butting, and holes in the walls like black holes swallowing the light. There was a garden through the windows that grew with them—wild yet cultivated. This house was filled with their problems, with their love, with their lives. But, eventually, it emptied of them. Slowly, like an ancient lake dried up by the sun, they learned how to change to move on. They spread out like clouds across the sky and put me in a box. Now, I can’t help but wonder from my resting place: where have they drifted to, and how have they had to change to keep going?
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 10:06 AM UTC
The careful moon maunders through the glass ceiling
on these long nights
when I try to alchemize my visions into ships.
I imagine the mist moping among the larches—
the dewy bark that wakes,
looking for shadows of loggers in the grey.
On cold nights like this I sleep beneath a sheet, sweating,
dreaming of China’s violet sky exploding with hues
of a butterfly’s paper wings.
The summer air crackles above the pale girl’s tent—
a counterfeit ankh hangs between
her naked, sagging *******
and she sees the future in the reflection of her eye
on an Opinel’s blade—her iris wheezing into shapes.
She tells me there are gales ahead
like ones in schoolbook etchings of Poseidon.
Boys will choke on salt, she says,
or the ice will kiss the little princes to sleep.
But she coos how they look like dancers at a ball.
How many boys will be lost? I ask the girl.
All of them, she says with ***** on her breath,
but this won’t stop you, will it?
In my favorite dream yolk sizzles on a cast iron as mother sings.
My older sister laughs, cheeks full of sourdough and jam,
and father’s wet hair drips onto his paper—
the ink of little letters smearing into bare branches.
The dream helps me forget that rain never ends where I wake,
where guilt’s proboscis feeds on hardened veins.
To whomever’s my son, please don’t put me in an elegy
where the memory of me will rot like wet wood.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
cool spring water
fresh ground flour
with love and time
growing a bit sour
a spectacle divine
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 11:54 AM UTC
Corduroy Bucket Hat,
Correspond too that
The core to your heart
A pond
Stop skipping that
Shade around your
eyes
Keep in mind the light
in your optics
Know that the op-s-tic
Tock that got the sky
limiters chattin’ pishposh
Then pour your sun out
through the sourdough clouds
Imagine the bucket hat
Capturing all that
Static starch sound
•
My view of an old love song
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 9:12 PM UTC
Life is the flat side of a butter knife-
Relentlessly turned upwards, upon a
Battered cedar coffee table. His muffled
Silver skin glistens amidst the two week
Old newspaper and hardened crumbs of
Sourdough toast, catching the reflection
Of his weary hosts, as loud voices and silence
Rapidly bounce off the walls and onto his
Credit card-thin body:
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Purposeless, he waits for someone to rescue him-
Pick him up from his five foot grave
Covered in peeling wood and sentimental scratches,
And slowly slide his cold, frame across the counter-
Anything to remind him of his relevance.
As the rusty butter knife lays, abandoned,
So life carries on- oblivious to his melancholy
Wails that fall dormant to the loud, blaring stereo,
And shifting feet that tread so softly
As to keep the monster from waking from her slumber.
Thus, the routine drones on and on,
To the soundtrack of 2am infomercials
Claiming indestructible silverware sets:
Oh, but they have yet to enter the finite world of Father Time.
As he sets his place at the table, wearily awaiting what's to come,
The butter knife exhales hope, and suffocates in an air of subtle indifference,
Claiming his stake as a hollow prop, within an afflicted stage.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
i've started marking my cigarettes
before i tuck them into my brown bag lunch,
with the names of all those whom i've loved,
to remind me that loving them [was ]
(is) better
than writing a carcinogenic suicide note
every day to replace the peanut butter and jelly
on my sourdough.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
My father uprooted the linoleum tile
after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants.
The owners of the house before had laid down
their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen
back in 1959.
I would toddle in and out of the doorway
playing with the grout spacers,
and reaching for sourdough in the pantry.
All while stepping tiny pink sandals
around the dead ants.
I wanted to help my father, but was too afraid
to go near the oven.
The oven, whose
exhaust fan would snarl
like an animal of the night.
Incandescent, where they found Sylvia Plath.
Stained with oil
like a forgotten Jackson *******
Foreboding
of it’s adjacent countertop
where eventually would lay
divorce papers.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
8:30 A.M.
She wakes him up with breakfast
on the night stand.
Two eggs over-easy and lightly burnt
on the bottom so the yolks don't run,
two pieces of sourdough toast cut
diagonally, and a cup of coffee /
no sugar, no cream / brewed
at 8:15, two hours after
she got up to clean the house.
She mopped the floors twice,
tied the trash bags and set
them at the curb. She tested, dusted,
and retested the stagnant ceiling fans.
She vacuumed the rugs and wiped
down all wood, granite, and steel
surfaces.
She lemon Pledges allegiance to him.
While he's at work, she cleans his laundry.
She clean-presses his button-ups, making
sure to cut any stray threads and neatly
mend any loose seams. She irons a firm
crease in his pants and shines his all-black
wingtips. She doesn't use Kiwi. Something high-class
that I've never heard of.
When he comes home and sets his briefcase
near the furnace vent to sulk in his leather
chair, she consoles him. She pulls the lace hem
of her sundress to her waist and ***** his ****
until he comes to his senses.
*You look like a billion-dollar, gold-plated
monument feeding the world rosegold birdseed
from your immaculate palm binding my hair
like a Dutch Warmblood's tail, darling.*
She dabs the corners of her mouth trying
not to smudge her lipstick, straightens
her dress, and hurries off to wash
his car.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Spent my New Year's eve
staring at my walls.
They have not always been these four,
should have been walking out the door.
Leave without making sure I'm missed.
Dressed warmly,
with some solid shoes,
and a smile as wide as the rust belt.
Feeling like I can't loose,
hoping to find something to make the pain melt.
It didn't melt, it froze,
In the Colorado cold.
I did it to people that were old bros.
Makes me really ill.
How did I make it this low?
My soul is as smelly as some fermenting sourdough.
Wish we were between our four walls.
Twelve ***** and a cement goose,
48 beers feeling like we can't loose.
Probably put someone in a noose.
Leave the facade at that tree,
or else you cannot talk to me.
Golly ******* gee,
lets go to the mailbox to ***
Give us all a good laugh like hehe.
those were the walls I wish I stared at,
covered in Tyvex home wrap,
and all kinds of other crap.
With more memories than we can all remember,
until we meet after we go to the big slumber,
and hang out together with Hoone, Buffet, Slug, and all the others that were with us,
at our highest of highs,
and lowest of lows.
for now life doesn't blow.
it's all about the food,
and not the show.
Hope that wasn't rude,
yet it seems I need to go.
Where... not sure but out that door is all I know.
new job, city, state, country, career...
where to go, not ******* sure,
but hopefully to fix all the wrongs I have ever done,
can't even think of a funny pun,
thinking that I am shunned, and on the run.
Feeling like I should give up and be done,
but I don't want to get rid of the two things that make me feel whole,
my memories and my love.
all I got left to get me to the
new place to be at,
maybe get a cut,
and a new Oakland raiders hat,
possibly a new Louisville bat.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
I kissed my lover here,
Sandwiched between the smells and the sells;
Turkish delight and baklava,
Over ripening fruit,
Roast, moist meats in sourdough,
And him, heady, ready and in my spell.
So excited, we both were,
To be kissing, at last,
Surrounded by delicious.
All these succulent wonders,
But I wanted to eat him,
Eat him, with my eyes, my mouth,
Savour every moment
Every morsel, while I could.
Lost to me now, my Prince of Feasts,
Do you ever wander, among the fruits and flowers,
Hoping for a glimpse of me?
Do the scents and sounds evoke
The ghosts of us, kissing?
They do, for me, every time.
I close my eyes, and salivate,
Longing to devour you again.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
how on earth
could steaming squash and Brussel sprouts
be as good as Doritos and a soft serve swirl…
sure, I desire to be a healthy old man
but my taste buds wish me dead at 45
they long for sweet wheat and extra large
portions of meat
indiscrete feedings at fried food buffets
all the while maintaining the look of a fella
only slightly over-weight
…..still, I feel poorly
headaches and joint pain
racing brain and an inability to refrain
from the foods that are doing this to me
I never thought after conquering
8 years of ****** addiction
and 15 years a tobacco ******
that candy bars would be my greatest foe
forget candy bars
let’s talk bread….
loaves of sourdough golden roasted
rye to die for
and cinnamon…rolls,
banana or zucchini
sprinkled on toast with a touch of sugar …
it is no wonder I am larger than need be
the BMI calculator says I am 84 pounds
from defeating obesity
so much for my professional lineman physique –
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
Dreams
Dreams of Grandmas house
Dreams of The Pond
of Nahla the golden dog
of Mohka the black dog
of Pablo the horse
of Abraham the donkey
and ********* if I can't remember the cats name.
I do remember how I would only see it around meal time and then only briefly; descending from the attic to eat Fancy Feast.
Cutting cold hot dogs to mix in with the dog food, taking a bite or two from each dog, hot dog that is.
Stacking
Stacking
and stacking more hay.
Then, slowly, one bail, split in two, half for the ******* mixed with Alfalfa the other half for the horse.
I was, maybe (I'm a little too drunk to remember), 7 or 8, when my sister and I captured a box full of tree frogs from The Pond. Excited with our new box of living toys, we brought them back to the red house/trailer Frankenstein. Sitting outside in the sun we attempted to count them, fruitless, but convince a couple of dirt stained, sun baked, white trash kids of that.
Yelling (always yelling, never brash, rarely angry, always loving yet, always yelling) our Grandma called us in for lunch, stouffers lasagna with Truckee Sourdough Company bread greased thickly with tube garlic butter.
We ate, drank our whole milk, did our best to avoid the tantalus sin of sunscreen, and scrambled back outside, no thought or worry for our frogs.
It must have been July or August. the famed drought of the Western United States, aided by childish disregard, had slaughtered our maybe two dozen tree frogs.
I'll tell ya, I don't remember when or how Grandma (a lover of all things living, besides Bush 1 or Bush 2 perhaps) found the frogs but I do remember her often and automatic exclaim of "Son of a gun!" was replaced with the real version, replaced and amplified and aimed.
I can't remember our punishment or if we received one, but, rest assured, Joslyn and I never jammed a plastic handheld aquarium full of tree frogs ever again.
Thank Grandma Vicki for that one.
Thanks Joslyn, for reminding me of the attic cats name: Poe
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape
You're a red harp with veins painted on the side
When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words
Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands
I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor
You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design
I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor
When I fear the apologists
You fear the escapists
I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness
You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins
I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing
At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides
I am an island in a puddle of sand
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
Faded brick streets,
Iron-colored pathway
Leading us downtown
Lilac shirt,
**** black raspberries,
Bursts of sweet, floral blueberries on my tongue
Old ladies in long dresses
with baskets full of vegetables
Saturday morning
Honey in espresso
Bluegrass in the blue grass
16, 17, 18 windows
Waving at little ones
while fathers' backs are turned
Sweet little braids and pink bows
Brown, but golden in the sun
Busy streets on market mornings
Moss-covered picnic tables
Giggling under shaded hide-aways
Breathe in the present
Sunshine shimmering through Maple trees
Beads of sweat;
rolling down water bottles and my forehead
Glass, pottery, and macrame
Herbs, microgreenery, and fruit
My mouth waters
with thoughts of sautees and soups
Robins chirp over the bustling morning crowd
The scent of fresh baked sourdough
carried by the breeze
Young, hip parents intermingling with kind, old farmers
All of us captivated with the now
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 12:16 PM UTC
hot sourdough pancakes
smothered in maple syrup
cat at the window
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
i.
OVERWHELMED! Reading Philip Whalen's "Sourdough Mountain Lookout"
in a Boston cafe' good music good vibes quick approaching
afternoon chocolate croissant puffed up in my belly heart puffed up
in my chest ready to yell leap skip jump make a ruckus frantic
search for pen and notebook of course the notebook is left in Ned's
dormitory almost don't have a pen and feel a short fall in my
gut. A walking (or sitting) cliche, scratching thoughts onto a
napkin as they come, total organic no preservatives except I stopped
to think before writing "scratching" -- no! not the word I wanted
the correct word is STREAM, STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS, FLOW OF
EMOTION - like the beat legendaries whom I idolize but
what do I know... generations later, only had
****** (the cool hip term several
decades ago) and **** bourbon "Satan's **** that leaves me
sick and ***** Good delusion! Couchsurfing across the country,
drop by without notice, run broke, read books - poetry & the Autobiography
of Malcolm X, living off my parent's hard-earned capitalist cash...
ii.
Often I fear I am too young and
tender to survive in this world. Moments
like these - sitting, reading, basking
in a cafe - can make me overwhelmed,
Got to drop everything and sit, elbows
propped, palms cupping numb face,
to slow the rush of emotions pulsating
thru me. I am too big a fool, fall
in love too easily with everything.
The boy barista is prettier than I,
thought he was a girl when I
approached and shocked by his voice.
Angel with a black septum ring!
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
atop of your mirror
the sinister sound
of crystalline powder,
whispers maniacal cackles
as it's crushed, crackled beneath
the apathetic plastic card,
somehow sensual
your identity, face down -
grinning
rub it in soft circles
on your favorite reflection
'Which one of your nostrils
is more open to this
sort of thing?'
the frightened boy fumbles
for his devil's dollar bill,
it's a fascist nose-nozzle
vice-vacuum,
poison-sourdough
death-demon
breathe in your
shattered fiberglass fix,
shit's as cool as ice-cold *****
stings like a frost-bitten *****
snort, shiver -
twitch!
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
Reality is a blur, a foggy consistant blur.
Everyday is the same melancholic routine.
10 on the dot.
One sunnyside up egg with a toasted sourdough slice.
Citrus tea with honey and an amusing podcast to prepare.
Slap on foundation and eyeliner, to look somewhat "happy" for a straining workday to come.
Thank god for the coming 4 hours there, my mind is of spotless.
Not a thought of you comes inching in my deserted cold mind in those 4 hours.
As soon as I punch out and put away the fake smiles of the workday, you pop right up.
This in general is not bad in a way that I loathe you, the memory of you,
But bad in a way that I miss you.
Enormously.
The old routine was much more methodically medicore but it was pure ******* beyond happiness.
Up at 9, waffles with milk, with tv in the background.
As I can not fathom the desire to be at work already.
Walking in, I longed to see your deep icy blues that just melted me instantly as soon as I saw them,
Into a puddle, there I go.
Their target are aimed towards my ungraceful demeanor, it still shocks me through out my whole body.
Tingling, Inviting and Warm.
Feelings I felt everytime you nearby, I instantly knew it was you.
Present day.
As I drive towards what seems to be another morrow towards the vapid and grave, I look for you.
I felt those blues that day of a party.
I felt them as I walked away from a group conversation.
I felt them as I mourned the loss of someone.
I felt those blues that first night.
The night we met.
Vanilla ice cream, in the cold air and a life changing experince we both intuned.
Instinctively, I trust its profoundly there to you too.
Even now and till your departing day.
I felt those blue eyes.
As much sorrow and grief it brings me always, and probably will be till my final and sweet death,
I dream back to the days I would walk in, and melt in my puddle, as I felt and longed for those icy blues.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 4:47 AM UTC
Is it pure coincidence my brother had called for my birthday four nights earlier, and instructed me regarding how to know whether a man loves me?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXXVII)
I thought of sipping wine, and, to avail
O, nibbling choc'late after hours for sense,
Until YOUR text confirmed the dream which thence
YOUR lies had stoked: was false. Now in the hale
Eye of a Winter's dawn where snow to scale
Is piled so whitely 'round, I think fr'intents
Of how but thieves and scoundrels rouse pretense
To mock me e'er anon, and whither's bail?!
We sip the lighter Barry's tea in tour
And talk of sourdough since he makes bread to
Feed all of us cuz my late schedule, poor
As saying, is far too busy. And I do
Not watch those whitish tendrils waft as twere
Upon my rosy lea, now. Ah, what's new?
28Nov18a
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
And just like that she's my mama again.
Calm as cool cat inching through an alley.
Asking about me with her motherly concerns.
Reminding me her love is constant even if her mood may not be.
She ensures that she never really has to worry about me because I'm just like her in a way. Strong and self sufficient.
She had to love us all differently and for some of us her love couldn't be enough.
She revives me as she gushes about how maybe I was the only one.
This woman is not cold, she is as vibrant as a July night with a clear sky.
Her words glide rather than fly like a dart aiming to ****
Her eyes do not squint with mutiny but widen with interest
Do you miss your dorm?
She must've been reading my mind
She knows it gets hard around here
Her eyes tell me that she needs me around just to bring her back to being my mama
Not Mani's or Cartel's because it makes her cold
She needs to be warm once in a while
For me
Pass me the jelly
Can you take me to work on Tuesday?
Refill the tissue
Did you feed the dogs?
She depends on me
Thanks for cleaning the kitchen
Thanks for doing the laundry
I always try to ease her workload
Thanks for putting my clothes in my room
Thanks for making the lasagna
…Sourdough melt basket with mayo and ketchup. Please don't forget the mayo and ketchup. Oh and chicken tenders with barbecue sauce
Lex
Yes Mama. I won't forget, I never do.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC