She was shaped like a kite

Knowing she was there, breathing in

every word he pulled together

like kite strings in a bouquet of flight

made him feel both larger than life

and also corralled by chicken wire.

There was no measuring up

or out or over, or need to justify anything,

but part of him craved her arms

or at least her approval,

even if just a nod from 1,000 miles away.

Nine years, five years, twenty,

more/less… I can point to some mark

on my body or better, recall how

a particular phrase ruined/saved me.

But tonight is a lonely bucket,

with great angst staring at the floor

while a supermoon blazes

for someone else.

It’s pink. I’m blue.

A poet once asked, “How are you?”

I feel compelled to answer.

No spark

Tomorrow’s wishes

lie at the bottom of a fountain

that’s not been turned on

so nobody pays attention.

The bird atop is frozen, mid-squawk,

awaiting a liftoff that will never come.

Embers keep the feet shuffling

when the air is still, quiet

and the pain is tolerable,

the fatigue growing near.

Counting steps or minutes is a waste

as is describing fire as it goes out.

I found where most of the dust motes 

from childhood daydreaming went: 

they’re in my chest, floating, gaining 

traction against all odds, 

making the bleak landscape seem 

touched with enough magic 

to make long drives and small tasks 

bearable or at least not fruitless.