Tuesday, September 20, 2016

When I walk in after my lunch break, it's as though a year has passed. Though little has physically changed, I barely recognize the spirit of the place. There's a moment of awkward scrutiny, as everyone scrambles to remember those by-gone relationships from what must seem like remote antiquity. Then, the kids burst out in simultaneous recognition and joy, consummating our long-anticipated (but never hoped for) reunion. Deniesha outwardly rebukes me by silently and forcefully cleaning every available surface. She doesn't look up as the kids run to me one by one to hug my legs or hang from my waist. Her quick, angry swipes with the slopping rag accuse me of absconding, like a binge-partying father who only sneaks back home, head held deceptively low, to panhandle just enough from his own family's mouth for one more round of drinking and debauchery. I know I'm expected to feel some sense of shame or regret, but I can tell that, despite her outward demeanor, Deniesha is secretly glad to see me. After all, she can now leave the classroom's perpetual chaos to go "plan" in the soft-cushioned chair by the lobby's water cooler.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Cars beneath my window
Push and shove and swerve,
Red hostile lines.

Chrome kids told to "share"
but honk and scream when someone
takes their lane.

Life's no better. Too damn
fast, not wide enough
for two of us.

No one gets to where they want,
Not how they'd like, with mild
Green lights.

Roads like these
You stick her out, fight hard,
and pray the long end's yours.

Saturday, September 10, 2016

The Call

Ringtone.
Her whispers fragment on
My ear
Crumbling like last fall's leaves,
Bruised thin.
She sniffles, starts, then stops,
Pleading
Quietly, Forcefully.

Static.
She knows I know she hurts.
But waits,
Reeling back more and more,
Leading.
She sets the hook in guilt,
And pulls
Wearing me down to speak.

"Sorry."
How can you strike the mouth
You feed?
She hungers to hear that word.
"Ok."
And with that short rebuke,
Relieved,
Hangs-up in victory.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

I slip beneath a sagging willow
Sweat drains away my strength and will, oh
Break has begun but now the work begins.

The root of my distress is well-known
The fruit of my hard labor's unknown
Straining [grasping] for answers I search among the leaves.

Some boughs are kept in senseless shadow
Reminding me of my short life's woe
Never have I been favored with kind light.

But other branches sport their


Light sun gives they catch and keep and make their own
They do not mourn or wait for better light
But take what each moment the sun gives