inside sales
house littered with instruments i rarely touch,
i go out to work, selling lullabies
to babies. the dandelion, too, makes an honest living,
enticing us to blow.
house littered with instruments i rarely touch,
i go out to work, selling lullabies
to babies. the dandelion, too, makes an honest living,
enticing us to blow.
family spread apart. such joy,
such grief. warm spell
passes. we hold each other
in the dark.
the whites. the colors. darks. the ‘do not dry’ pile.
the bras go in their own mesh bag.
the things that dry on ‘low.’ the coupla sweaters.
look out. i’m on the job.
when she sings it’s me, not she, who stands exposed.
she doesn’t share my slightest shift of
balance, this inner turning-to-see-who-sees.
not fear, but that same skin.
writing a poem in your head is a bit like planning
a surprise party for yourself that you know
your friends are too busy to attend and you’ve already chosen
an apology to serve before cake.