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Summer Conversations With a Teenage Boy

7 Aug

I don’t mean to be a bother

it’s just that I think

I saw something move under your bed.

It might have been a sock monster,

Springing sui generis perhaps.

More likely the result of sympatric speciation

between the socks and mold spores,

now feeding on sunflower shells dropped down the crack

between your mattress and the wall.

I know. You didn’t notice, being very busy and all.

I’m going… oh, but if I may bring up

the issue of the drinking glasses?

On precursory glance I estimate seeing perhaps a half-dozen of them,

and not to be alarmist, but one appears to be growing a fur coat

or a new strain of penicillin, which would be quite a find.

I hate to hinder science.

Nonetheless, I would prefer the glasses be placed in the dishwasher.

Sanitized for our protection.

Again, I know you’re  extremely busy.

Get to it when you can.

Lastly, I truly rue to mention,

but your closet door seems to be bowing outward

as if it were a womb for some alien life form trying to claw out

I don’t want to speculate recklessly,

but it could have something to do with the fact

that you last did laundry sometime in June

if my admittedly rough calculations are correct.

Perhaps you could get on that eventually.

No rush at all, but apropos of nothing..

I’ve changed the wi-fi password.

You may have it when your room is clean.

Sorry, Emily

6 Aug

Emily Dickinson

A response to Ms. Dickinson

Hope is not the thing with feathers – chirping out platitudes.

Hope is the thing with claws that dig in, defiant, refusing to let go —

even when its bloodied fingertips are worn raw against the slick obsidian cliffs of despair… statistics… survival rates.

Hope is no oblivious canary, singing merrily as it heads down the mineshaft.

Hope knows full well what it’s up against, and screams into the darkness anyway:

You. Will. Not. Win.

Monday’s Aftermath

5 Aug


Well, whatever,

Let’s not debate

about who ate what.

The point is, they’re gone now,

and we’ll have to settle

for green smoothies for breakfast.

Get our daily allowance

of vitamins and minerals.


I miss the cupcakes.

Didn’t See That Coming

4 Aug


You ate

the one vanilla buttercream cupcake

even though

I bought four chocolate ones for you,

sprinkled with sugary celebrating confetti

Because I thought that’s what you wanted.

It wasn’t. So I settled for a chocolate one

instead of

the one vanilla buttercream cupcake

you ate.

Hank Writes

2 Aug


The possum balances

on the the weathered fence rail

Hissing down, red eyes glaring.

I reluctantly stand sentry

because the frantic terrier shows no sign of retreat.

Of course.

Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.


This is why dogs don’t write poems.

Going, going, gone

2 Aug


This poem is a summer Friday

melting faster than you can eat it






and getting all over your fingers



you have to lick them free.


This poem twinkles

like elusive fireflies

chased through meadows

mason jar in hand

maybe you catch it

maybe not.


This poem makes you

run                 across                 the             street

to save your bare toes

from hot asphalt.

You still don’t

put your shoes on.


The poem is nightfall

gentling the summer heat

until it barely brushes your cheek,

whispers in your ear

‘fall is coming.’

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