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Sparkling and paint-splattered, Saturday oversleeps turning into her pillowPillow soft Sunday urns for another day and a trenta iced coffeeCoffee carries Monday to work in a fireman’s holdHolding her promise Tuesday clings to the edgeEdging from the brink Wednesday throws her leg over the humpHumpback chest Thursday breaks open spilling pages freeFreed Friday shimmies down
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Snow thick as marshmallow fluff crunched satisfyingly beneath our boots. Our breaths came in white ghosts. Sneaking looks at me under the brim of his Phillies cap, Taylor was about to say something. I silenced him with an arched eyebrow. We are at the wrought iron gates. I remember Mr. Levin saying how on Sundays
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Door creaks open Betwixt my legsHead in the crook of my knee By my solesAll soft belly and sharp claws On my curlsA crescent hot pressed into my dreams You walk across my chestFlop down to Luxuriate in lethargy My eyelids flutter against your snoresI awake into your somnolence Your Eyes open, a hopeful yowl“Dammit
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This is my handDeep in my pocketOver my heartCovering my eyes, oh God Covering my eyesLaying in bedNever wanting to get up againHere is my hand Another morningWeighs on my chest pressingOver my heartTake this hand Pinned to the sadnessDeep inThe pocket ripped patched tornBleeding precious need To reach out to rise
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Littered with dark coffee rings and cigarette burns and the remains of an old tuna fish hoagie, Tiger Malone’s desk was the cleanest thing in the tiny cramped office. Empty soda cans huddled in the dark corners. Dust encrusted stacks of papers teetered on mismatched file cabinets. I drew my cardigan closer to my sides
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Although I couldn’t see, something told me I wasn’t alone in the cellar. This was my cellar, the place for my taters and rutabaga. There were shelves where I put up my peaches, my pickled watermelon, and my mama’s special apple butter. This is my cellar and I love its cool quiet walls.I can’t see
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Hold the doorAlways hold the doorEven if the next customer is steps away from the entrance and has to do a little run walk to get to you and you have to kind of weird waitHold the damn doorWith a smile Don’t hog the soda machineThere’s always someone waitingAlwaysThis is not the time for beverage
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How much we love each otherAn anniversary surprisePictured RocksYour gift to me despite your fear of heightsLet me take your photoBack up you sayTake it all in fromFirst date to first grand babyThat woman just one of manyThat woman you talk to late into the nights she is secondsOur love is decadesCool sandstone heavyNo one
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