Crumbling rock
is easy on the eyes,
the same way moss calls me
to rest my limbs

My spirit is restless;
there’s no Valhalla
I’ve yet touched
I imagine it’s a cozy grey

Rest is a trial
but I’m a success
in that I can breathe
over and over again

They want to discard me
because fixing is too hard
and there’s relative ease
in anonymous landfills

I soar when no one’s looking
but I try to kiss
every cracked rock
and mossy patch I see

An echoey tremor,
they sang
near the wall
and all the snow birds
slowed to listen.
Just enough light
to get home,
they leaned together
in a huddle
for warmth of spirit.

They hope
tomorrow brings more song
and feathery touch.

I knew before the waitress came,
I’d miss the old stoneware.
It was thick and oatmeal-colored
with inevitable staining in the cracks.
I’d put my lips where thousands had before
and in a smoky diner, I’d know
a communion of coffee.
No, I knew I’d miss the mugs
just like I miss the chipped formica
and stale fluorescent air
that hovered in the truckstop diner
of my late teens.
My 40’s have unfolded
in a world
of dominant decorators
and twittering tippers
who only find pleasure
when they can see and document it
for quick posterity.
I miss secret-dingy-diner aesthetic.