Another day at the grocery store

They found forever among the Froot Loops,
halfway between Frosted Flakes
and immortality in that special place
under the lasting look of a toucan and tiger
eyeing whatever future spills
in colorful milk poured before them.

When they once again crossed carts
in the frozen aisle of Eggos
and perpetual loneliness, they let go
of forever – it now tasted stale,
iced over and bland. No amount of salt
and preservatives could save them.

Marriage well worn

What to say of a marriage
well worn? She’ll dive into a coffee
pot this morning, swimming
into another day as hours do laps
around the clock.

Her eyes – from what I can see –
refuse to accept the daylight,
fighting a battle she’s lost before but,
ever hopeful, lashes out once more
against the sun.

I place a hand on a coffee mug and
pledge allegiance in whatever wars await
after her hair is dried and our son
once again demands we mix
water and milk.

For a few minutes, we are a couple
embracing small moments crackling
with sparks the same they have
all these years even as the clock dances
through another day.

Chocolate caked face

I find peace watching him devour
a cupcake, displaying the stoic
patience of a ravenous dog nine days
since its last dinner. I savor

these moments, serene in the simplicity
of a child’s composure confronting
the confectionery challenge to cram
as much cake+icing in a mouth at once.

I envy his free-spirited delight,
chocolate icing caking his face,
a mark of sugary youthful indiscretion
on a sweet face resembling mine.

I cannot return to that place – try
as I might to forget the edible norms
of adulthood – so here I sit in joy
living vicariously through my filthy son.

Should I even get out of bed?

I woke up early today, sitting in bed
not sure if I should get up
or roll under my bed and hide
from the black – dark that tastes bitter
like dry arugula stuck in my teeth.

The silence is numbing and scrapes
inside my head, nails scratching
a blackboard with rambling scribblings
pushing me in spirals. Sometimes
the world hops out of view.

What is life, if there is no afterlife?
A prefix for nothing, a start missing
an ending, a fire extinguished
eventually. What is life without a spark
divine or otherwise brightening dark?

We live, we love, we work, we die,
circles overlapping as we mark time
like fireflies enjoying the dusk aware
that night must inexorably snuff
the light we flash for as long as we can.

I swing my feet to the floor, facing the day
or whatever may barrel headfirst
before night, realizing life isn’t meaningless
for those we share meaning with, more lamps
to illuminate even the largest room.


Sometimes I’d like to unpack
my soul and watch it pour
onto the ground, mixing with the dirt
and whatever lay before me, a new me
with constituent parts
that unmistakably resemble what was
but look tough,

Then I’d like to feel
this constituted mixture ooze
through my fingers, free of the bell jar
and doubts coming before me, now paramount,
with the confidence born
of foregoing our imposed dejection
and feel liberated,