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.
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 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.
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.
