There’s as much comfort lately

in a cold rock in a wintering field

as there is inside my blanket fort;

nowhere’s safe from the awful thoughts.


The most frightening of all

is the numbness that rises

within my tainted daydreams

like smog over a culm bank,

all smudged and faintly disturbing.


Absurdity of grace

I wanted to be a floating butterfly

but instead I’m a gavorting hippopotamus,

struggling to dance on land.

A heavy spirit inside a heavier carcass.

The good book tells me

someday I’ll soar in weightless wonder

and music will make me lose all worry.

The gravity of my situation

is lost to the absurd notion of grace.

I am a smudged slate,

rife with dust and mistakes.

I know there are bright things

but lack wherewithal to look for them.

I prop open the door and listen

as miracles pass me by.

Stuff Mart

He had 17 loaves of white bread

in his cart, along with six jugs of sweet tea

and large tub of cottage cheese.

She had a shower curtain and duct tape

and at the last moment,

added a Cadbury egg to her basket.

I exchanged pleasantries with the cashier-

something about how it’s almost Friday,

as if the moment wasn’t rife with possibility

of death by meteor or gluttony.

I remember bringing my child here

and feeling accomplished

when my cupboards were full;

I wonder if that feeling is lost for good

now that I know less about fulfillment

and more about never-ending questions.

A dark little bird flew in the rain

and I drove home between dotted lines

on a slick road with no guard rail.