hiding under my wing

the cloud was scary

and did not move fast enough


I wonder at the shape of feet

(though mostly I ignore them)

and other vessels of transport

or destruction


there was no rain

and night was wishful thinking


could I repopulate a town

if I had to start over

and is it even worth it

to notice stars in the dark


buds burst open on trees

as if in a race toward hope


the crow was jaded and sleepy

– I am that crow



The storm reminded me of

exotic foods like jelly

and uncomfortable things like

moth-ballsy-tweed and chalky milks.


My refuge was a smoke-stained poncho

and a world of make-believe,

but that was 40 years ago.


I’ve loved old books since I was little

and many times I’ve wished

for an elbow-patch savior

to rise from the stacks

and carry us to a place of quiet abandon.

I know there’s always a mess

after a storm; I just hope there’s bread.

The bunker is tempting

The discomfort tastes like

overcooked green beans and

diesel and feels like eyebrow hairs

pushed the wrong way.

The memory feels fresh

straddling a playground pommel horse,

worrying over splinters

in my young hide.

Ply me with creamy things

and I’ll forge on without complaint.

Schlock timing

Sitting in a ghost-place

with upended furniture

and leftover gravy,

an overwhelming urge

to do an Ethel Merman impression

is making me giggle inside

but I sit stoically

with only a twitching eyebrow

betraying my ill-timed mirth.