A Piece of Art
Enter my gallery.
I crouch in the center,
a living piece of art.
Will you buy me?
Display me?
Maybe not.
I’m etched with lines
carved with the
nights you wouldn’t
hold me, the days
the newspaper was
a wall you built
between us.
Rolls of fat
ripple round
my middle,
round my arms,
down my face,
a wall I built
between us.
I never looked
nice to you, I know.
Art isn’t supposed
to look nice, it’s
supposed to
make you feel.
Perhaps I’m not
A piece of art
to you.
A Year from Now
A year from now
I bet I’ll wish
I set the clock
to meet the sunrise
splashed across the
morning sky.
A year from now
I bet I’ll wish
I ran through sprinklers,
used the china,
danced on tables
every day.
A year from now
I bet I’ll wish
I had more years,
I had more spunk,
to be the child
I never was.
Beach Sand
You, the summer sunset
glistening on wet skin.
A patina of sand
and goosebumps
my fingers touched
on purpose.
Me, awkward in your
too-big sweatshirt.
Beach sand gritty,
spotted with tar,
stuck between
my toes.
Our first time
together, almost
at an end, we
sat in your car,
beach sand settling
on the floor boards.
You are thousands
of miles away. Kids
and grandkids
fill your life. But if
you walk along the ocean,
pick up beach sand,
think of me.
Bleeding
I don’t paint smiles over
wounds too deep to love.
I don’t strangle sorrow,
poison pain with pills.
I don’t cry,
I bleed on the page.
Boy in a Ball
He slumps against
the wall,
head bowed,
arms on knees.
A human ball.
Perhaps his
heart fell
out of his chest.
He watches it
pulse on the floor.
Perhaps he
wants to be
very small,
to disappear
into shadow.
Boy in a ball,
will you roll
out of sight
if I offer you
my hand?
Alien Buddha Press 