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.

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It’s a sweet thing

to find an object

of joy

just out of reach;

there’s always

somewhere

to go.

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.

The Beverly

The parquet expanse

glossy built-ins

purple tile

paisley curtain

saffron in the rickety cupboard;

bus schedules

solitude and “Starry Night.”

.

A piece

of fractured fairy tale

green and gold

no valet but an intercom

where the soul would be.

.

There’s always a streetlight

in the Big Moments;

sometimes it’s unlit.

Dig In

You can’t force joy,

though the fucking hyacinths

floating on the damn spring breeze

sure make a go of it;

if only

we can meet them where they bloom.