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.

Winter

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

especially.

Like a cat, he

came to the door

with teeth clenching

delicacies

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.