poetry

a drive to work

how do they behave?
how do they feel?
how do they see the world?

a Mormon
on a bike
interrupts
this

I feel
the hardness
of the
steering wheel
in my hands
and see
the sweat
on the men
jogging down
Los Feliz
Boulevard

a homeless
man on a
sidewalk
interrupts
this

he winks
at me

and grins
without
teeth

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poetry

i’m always sorry

she crawled hands and knees on the kitchen floor
crying, breathing shallow, twisted mouth

she pulled my face to hers
she sat in my lap

our electric blues connected
she saw into my soul

she told me I don’t have JOY
or GOD in my heart

that it’s making GOD sad
that she wants to see more of her dad

her heart won’t obey her
“my secret is telling me
not to tell”

I dig my hands into her body
grip her tight
for dear life
dear life

I tell her she is right,

and that I am sorry.

Standard