She had been crushed/
by words dropped on her
with power,
by one who used/
and abused/
them well.
I could tell/
her that my verbs/
and nouns/
and words/
were tender/
and soft /
like butterfly kisses,/
but only time/
could heal her/
and make her well/
once more flow.
God knows me Better /
than I know myself. I just/
need to learn of me.
Just because he’s not/
kissing her doesn’t mean he’ll/
smooch anyone else.
I wish that she would/
listen to me. But she won’t,/
because she don’t care.
I’m really good at/
splitting Midwest fireplace wood./
That keeps us both warm.
If you text your friend /
while you are walking, you may /
fall into the ditch.
Death
of my
battery.
When your mother
keeps the car trunk light
on
for 2 days,
that’s what happens.
And what Chrysler engineer
had the idiot idea
to put the battery
in the driver’s-side
wheel well,
behind a splash guard,
with no easily-accessible
screws?
Stupidhead.
I was furious.
45 minutes
and 2 screws out,
6 to go,
I was worse.
I walked home.
I was cold.
I was angry.
Then I met the guy
who was a few blocks away
from getting on the freeway.
He stopped at a stop sign,
and his axle on his old van
broke,
and his front wheel
fell off.
And he was grateful.
“It could have been
so much worse.
I was blessed.”
He was right.
And now I’m grateful
and blessed.
The worst feeling in/
the world: Have diarrhea/
on Thanksgiving Eve.
Only those who have/
had a dog can empathize/
with those who lose theirs.
When your holiday/
spirit start to swerve, just sing,/
remember, and serve.