Broke

If money was air
you’d long ago
have suffocated.
Which is one
of the longest books
in Death’s library.
But instead you
breathe on,
unsure of what
you’ll read.

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The Habits of the Clouds

It’s steady, no back and forth.
No hiccups, false starts, or short stops.
Weather slow or fast, violent or calm,
It’s steady-the habits of the clouds.
Not afraid to be solitary, but not too meek
To combine and besiege the Earth,
Raining havoc on us all. These heaven
Holders reflect our history.

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Whirlwind

The heart’s hot climate- a hometown
Of obsession’s hurricanes. The eye
Of rejection’s self-pity never passes
Quickly enough. But in the throws
Of wind and rain, ripping apart homes,
And flooding road ways- rebuilding
Is encouraged. Progress forced upon us.
Obsession’s path of destruction paves
The road for summer’s affectionate breeze.

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Favorite Place on Earth

It’s small, trouble-free and understated.
The fountain is nothing to write home about.
It’s just trickling water in unpolished granite.
It is dwarfed by the rising white and black basilica.
As the wisteria flourish in the shade of le Sacre-Couer,
Few, fortunate lovers and friends sit
Under the ivy-wrapped columns.
It is stuck in a city known for the more beautiful of its kind.
Les Jardins: des Plantes, du Luxembourg, des Tuileries…
This one pales in size, in acclaim, in traffic.
This is where I came then. Young, but jaded. Alone.
This is where we stand now. Still young. Hopeful. Together.
Finding this garden then, where we find the best view
Of this house of prayer, may not have been like winning life’s lottery,
But it has been like a first job-teaching me to make
My own soul’s fortune, my own future.
Returning here now, where we pose for time-lapse photos,
May be what I need to learn what to do with
The riches it taught me to find.

 

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Stain

The fruit smoothie just exploded
From the blender across white tile floors.
Dripping mashed, half-chopped fruit covers
My favorite old pair of jeans.
I drop to my knees to glide a wet paper towel
Over the slop. But the berries and milk
Have a way of forming your eyes and tight jaw
Just right. To let the white tile shine through again
I have to wipe away a banana curled lip
And strawberry cocked eyebrow.
I stare, letting the paper towel wilt in my hand.
Maybe salty tears will clean it all for me.
But secretly, I hope it’s a lasting stain.

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