When a morning breaks

during armageddon,

it’s like trying to trace the outline

of a cloud

when you’re in the middle of it-

there aren’t boundaries

and your body is a vast damp lawn.

Draw me the moon

give me a tree

write me a story

with as few lines

as it takes

to make me see

beyond today.

There’s moss growing on my bathroom windowsill

overlooking the abandoned dove’s egg in the rain gutter.

Things are moving slow inside me.

I bought a summer dress that should be here by my birthday

as if I’m sure I’ll need it as if the world will keep spinning.

I hope to have chocolate cake soon.

Each morning is a new ache from my feet to my neck

and my battered spirit is becoming numb which is worrisome.

I look forward to fireflies.

Today’s poem was about cormorants

which I know little about

so I started reading scientific articles

but lost interest just past halfway

because I was thinking about

how obscure my death will be

and how it won’t affect more than

a handful of people

(maybe a few more tangentially)

and how most of us can only hope to do something good before we go

but spend little of our time

pursuing things that actually make us

happy or fulfilled because

the life we’re created is one of

vicious cycles of paperwork, climbing,

complaining, and consuming,

it’s like we’re trying to vacuum the forest floor

to make it as clean

as we want but it’s already

perfect.

Diamond Row in Philly

was no garden party.

The sidewalk bereft,

a Tennessee walker,

purple velvet painting

leaning on a 40-

lazy hoodlum still life

with a twist of menace

waiting behind the gate.

Subway tunnels nearby

held no cheese (or hope)

but a nice Twinkie

waited in the Wawa

at dawn in the suburbs.