Lost: Photograph of Mother and Her Young Son

It stuck to the bottom of my shoe
like a leaf on any November day
a week, maybe two, after a wind
wretch’d from a down belly funnel
ran off its tracks,  god-plowing miles
of field across twelve states, ripping
through lives built on wide-open prairies;
in the quiet ringing after calamity,
I tried to kick it off, then forgot.

Glued to the wet of the car mat,
a little face with a halo of brown curls
bundled in his young mother’s arms
sits in a car now upturned on Route 24,
dumb to the loss, this innocent find
all that is left of October’s calm.


I tried to stay awake
to watch the night
that comes early
move into a dawn
that arrives late,

but the cold came
and the covers
blanketed me
into a cozy
dream sleep.

Winter is not
meant to be
watched; rather,
it is found
in the drowsy
rhythms of hibernation.

To Me, He Came

He liked to cum.
Now, they all do,
oh, I know that,
but he did,  so

Like a cat, he
came to the door
with teeth clenching

in gold boxes
of caramel
and chocolate
Belgian truffles,

or some rotten
piece of trash from
the back dumpster,
I didn’t mind.

I would gobble
it all up, so
satisfied that
to me, he came.

Good Grief

Stars are painted
tin foiled twinkle
that hang overhead
the Xmas tree lot
and trailer shed.

A bald bulb
strung across
the graveled path
is the only living
thing besides
the balsams and firs
cut months ago.

They’re not long
for this world
dropping needles
and losing sap
as they choke
automobile fumes
and the watch’s
cigarette smoke.

I look.
But good grief,
the loneliness
on the corner
of vacantcy
is more than
I can stand.