Poem 20160215b

these days
it seems like every day is a sunday
slow to get started
without the hope of a friday
without the promise of a saturday
without even the grim potential of a monday morning

and there are only so many times
you can attempt the crossword puzzle
only so many times you can erase
–you were so careful, using pencil
—-you heard that true confidence was
using a pen to fill out a crossword
——you don’t have that kind of confidence

only so many times you can linger
over breakfast
–oh god, what about a poached egg
—-does anyone really like them
——you could never make them without breaking them

sunday every day sunday stretching on

Poem 20150115

among the smooth grass
above the markers
three graces smile
holding hands
each looking in a different

only one has faced death before
and it is her constant companion
a shadow that no amount of light
can banish nor darkness obscure
the other girls will never know
the same way
the touch of his cold still hand
in their own small, warm, ever-moving hands

but the soldiers
who wait beneath their little feet
who wait beneath the warm loam
who wait silently at attention forever
have shared this with her
before their transmutations
and now as she smiles
on this sunny day