"Have a nice day,"
she says without a smile.
"I've had better,"
he responds to himself.
she pauses... as if her
misplaced thoughts are
still lying on his tray;
an uncompromising "thank you,"
rolls off his lips and is
pocketed by her like loose change.
what have we accomplished here
he wonders...
Time Spent Alone
awkwardly we manage
a lunch time tune,
reporting our differences
acclaimed indifference
closes the gap as the spirit
of our conversation intertwines;
both descending and punctual
both discarded like the end of a meal,
and the time spent alone
should bring us closer
but falls short of expectations;
in search of confessions
controls our appetite for isolation,
selfishly our values mix and mingle
with fragments of memories...
we smoke our last cigarette and leave.
Song of the South
the wind's sour song
whispers gossip,
a touch of warmth
dances in the valley,
winter's chill is postponed;
the rain fill our lands with moisture
winter crops sink deep into
their soggy fields easily,
tree roots look like Bonsai
in the shallow soil...
year after year the odds torment
a faint glimmer of hope is saved
in the cellar for next year's planting;
the harvest queen, a petite idol,
rides the parade routes unmolested
as she smiles in the fake of foreclosure,
the wind's song, smooth and gentle,
covers our complexion with leaves
and the pride of our heritage is
retold every fall when the winds
decide to blow south again.
The Gamble
he chance received
poised and ready
she makes no connection
offers no depth,
perceptions or dexterity,
on the ground remain
like bulbs unplanted,
curtains block the breeze
from windows to the world,
a gamble played out like
seven cards leave her
holding nothing except
an intact reputation,
her chance received
once again like always
she decides to play it safe.
Restrained
morning finds us returned
to our displeasures,.
forced by a loss of necessity
revolving determination,
an April fools way of life
constant as any struggle;
we are participants
of an economic climate,
a shield that prevents a
little daylight loneliness;
it creeps around us early
attending to our dreams and
most of our illusions,
regardless of any forecast
or social positioning;
we grieve for the weekend's conclusion
like any mourning relative might be,
we are haunted by our youth,
its vitality and unspoiled freshness;
restrained by habits, we are
always one step ahead of
our pursuers as the morning finds
us wanting to avoid the day.
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