T-minus 11

Burned toast, raw yolk,

a few last words

on the unswept floor.

[LSS, 5/7/24]

Thanks, A.I.

Seventeen minus six

equals eleven.

[RK, 5/5/24]

Midnight Snack

I am stuffing my mouth

with whole, rotting cantaloups,

caravans of them,

to avoid being the one

who eats that precious plum.

[LSS, 4/17/24]

Those Fucking Plums (Home Sweet Home)

I researched those plums you swiped
and kept packing and repacking
from hectic to happiness

they stayed cold even though
you apologized for your obvious theft
from icebox to the icy northwest

I’m not surprised you failed to recognize
your plum-purple horse-drawn caravan
parked there alongside abandoned houses

sweet comes to mind, whether fresh fruit
or home sweet home, pushed along in your
red wheelbarrow.

[RK, 3/31/24]

Here and Now

It’s a dream I’ve been having 

about moving 

into my two-houses-ago house 

while living 

in my one-house-ago house, 

not recognizing this house 

I am waking into.

[3/30/24]

Not Rhetorical

At what point 

does what you 

are looking for 

become what you 

are looking at.

[LSS, 3/23/24]

 

Yet (Again)

here I am waiting 

for another poem,

some forgotten stream 

I was meant to walk into

(meant to walk out of?)

not remembering

yet (again) what

quicksand looks like

and where it lies.

[LSS, 3/1/24]