Photographic Memory Expedition

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One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.

One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.

One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.

Minor Prophet

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I want to kiss the liquor from your lips
And your need for it
I want to escort the pain from your blue eyes 
To help you see again
That American Beauty of a wife
Those sweat-stained boys
Who think you are their life
The all of us who need you
Clearly

Smiling

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Tending to the dream
From deep in the dark

Remembering the breath
Stolen away

Hoping much too hard
To bring you to life

Smiling nonetheless
For that’s what you loved  

Thanking Her Senses 

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The furnace having done its job

Basks now, contentedly 

The boy asleep at daybreak’s glow 

Breathes rhythmic, calming me

The feline drowned in blanket rolls

Purrs more, despite her cool 

The dawn as pleased as she can be

Sits smiling, rosy fool