Who can say they’ve never been
Desperate, wanton, in need of
Something they cannot explain?
I admire that person, the one who
Turns a blind eye, a deaf ear to
Temptation, to greed and lust and
All the baser human instincts.
Keep up the exemplary work.
The worst times are those
When I’m caught off guard
As I’m drifting into sleep
Or the first moments upon waking
When my primitive brain latches onto
An ugly hunger that needs slaking,
Baking ideas like malformed cookies
Question mark-shaped dough
And I force myself to move
In action there is solace;
If I’m busy, I don’t think
That the Chicago airport would confound him.
That we wouldn’t make it into the virtual queue for a Star Wars ride at Disney’s Hollywood Studios.
I worried he’d think our family suite at the Art of Animation would be too childish, or that hanging out with his Nana wouldn’t be cool.
I worried I wouldn’t be able to keep up with my 18-year-old grandson for all the fun.
I worried about lots of stuff, but I forgot to worry about cancer.
Weird how I always seem to worry about the wrong things.
Driving, I thought
Of life and death
How some folks live more
In only a handful of years
Than some who barely scratch
Life’s surface after decade upon decade
Of blood coursing through veins
A heart beating, lungs expanding,
Going through the motions
But that’s not living.
That’s marking time.
My house is a mess
Cat’s toys scattered everywhere
Writer’s paradise
True story.
Peace, people.
The stockings aren’t hung
Because a new cat lives here
The tree goes untrimmed
Because a new cat lives here
Baby Jesus isn’t in the manger
Because a new cat lives here
Do you think Santa will find us?
No. Because a new cat lives here.
My mother reclined on the sand, long legs extended
Shying away from the camera
Water droplets drying on her black one-piece bathing suit
Her cigarette held just so
While we kids splashed about in ice cold water
She was beautiful, but never knew it
No one ever told her; I believe they thought she understood
But she never did.
Peace, people
Maybe seventeen, the carhop, her pregnant belly preceding her, waddled up to the driver’s side door.
She carried two root beer floats and an order of fries on a tray that she hooked onto a window rolled halfway down. She brushed away droplets of sweat dotting her forehead.
I was pregnant, too. Barely older than the carhop. The float was a craving. The fries an after thought.
We made eye contact, the waitress and I. My place in the passenger seat somehow granting me special dispensation.
I felt superior, there with my husband. I made judgements over greasy fries and root beer soaked ice cream.
Every now and again I wonder how her story played out. A right turn here. A detour there. She’d be my age, or thereabouts.
I hope her life’s been good.
I danced one night with a cowboy
He asked; I said yes, even though my friends were whining to go
I remember the smell of him, like new leather and spice,
The feel of his crisp white shirt and my hand in his,
And the way he held me close, like I was fragile and precious.
He asked if he could take me home, but I was spoken for already, so I thanked him for the dance
And went on my way.
On this ship of fools
We tremble, gnashing our teeth
What will befall us?
Without a captain
Storm’s surge threatens to swamp us
Waves batter and bruise
Who will trim the sail?
This captain is not worthy
The task falls to us.
