Rita’s mom knitted

in her dim and quiet den

while Rita refilled coffee cups

in the diner on 12th.

Both women daydreamed

about snuggling days long past,

when the whole world

(all that mattered) was held

in an orangey greenish quilt

that smelled of menthol cigarettes.

–

Rita smiled through smoke and hash browns

and 37 cent tips, remembering

stories her mom told her

of birds carrying souls to heaven

and how lost feathers meant second chances.

Her mom didn’t stray much from her sofa

with the faded quilt

or her songs of spring breezes rolling

over green hills of some long forgotten fantasy;

she was hoping her daughter still had visions

beyond gravy and chipped formica.

The brutal rainbow reminded me

I cannot hold beautiful things

for posterity because good things

are fleeting, keeping us chasing them

until we stumble off the earth.

That’s living at best, suffering at worst,

and all the fancy pilings of touch in between.

Holding tightly to a vague memory

of a make-believe mountain

drenched in quiet color.

Angels plant images like these

to sinners who repent in sleep

so they don’t drown in groggy sobs.

.

Bone and stone, star and sight

all carry the same oath, a blessing

when released on northern lights

and let go over dark seas.

A day unfolds with no grace,

lots of malice,

and frolicking crows;

you say “nonsense” like it’s a bad word.

.

I crave the gobbeldy-gook

like a fish needs to move forward.

.

Pump the feet

and go round and round-

when it stops,

the rest is soporific.

When they danced,

cows from the next county

slowed their cud-chewing

and the moon hung back,

a little envious, mostly wistful.

His cheeks held secrets

of tombs and acorns while

her smile was a Mondrian nightmare

and her hands were full

of crushed pine cones;

they were sappy

and devoid of catharsis.