My Poetry

Folding clothes busywork stills my agitation keeps my mind off the image of you wearing the suit you only ever wore to funerals. Never laundered in all the years you had it. Only worn for an hour or two then carefully hung back up like a bat in the back of the closet waiting for the next dark occasion to emerge. Practically new but I washed it before I gave it to the undertaker. Used a whole bottle of fabric softener but that didn't soften their tongues. The whispers twist  into an unbalanced load of lies. Underneath yesterday’s towels I stumble upon your shirt the one you wore the day before you spread your brains all over the bedroom wall. Your scent replaced by the smell of detergent spring fresh in the middle of winter. The shirt drops and tears fall. You left me spinning  in an endless cycle of  unanswered questions.  _____________________________________________ September is National Suicide Awareness Month.  I stayed with my friend, Sandy for days after her husband committed

Born deep into August when the heat is sticky as flypaper and the planet passes through Perseid. We run through sprinkler rainbows and listen for the ice cream truck. In the empty lot we slide into second base and raise a cloud of dust. Squirt guns and water balloons. Anything to stay cool. A quarter in our pockets and we race our bikes to the public pool. Every summer day the same, until summer stock auditions running lines, dress rehearsals and big dreams. Walk to the corner store in cut-offs and flip flops. We are movie stars in dime store shades. Opening night jitters lights go down and curtains climb we shine with every line. Greasepaint in the blood. _____________________________ I wrote this one for your birthday, James. I hope the day is filled with love and laughter. Happy (early) birthday.