Tea Leaves

on occasion
there was, I recall

With attention
— dare I mention —
to the most primal instinct of all

But love
what of love
thusly, here the poem ends

For one cannot
and one ought not
use, abuse, and pretend

Final Fall 

trouble walked in 

The popular, colorful kind

The cowardly kind

The kind too unkind to call ahead

Or wear a capital T, so at least you know

Now, except for the fallen and frozen leaves

The Heart has no proof

For trouble won’t Tell

It’s The end