Friday, February 27, 2015


…Sometimes when I read my writing back over days after I’ve written it I’m a little stunned at how dark the words are and I wonder why anyone would want to read it.
That’s the way it was/is with the poems below, mostly autobiographical ones I wrote after my brother and dad died with nine days of each other.
Stuff got dredged up and I needed a way to deal with it, so I wrote and some kind editor (bless his heart) thought they were good enough to publish:

…Today will be mixed day of productivity and fun.
I’m going to write furiously on my novel.  I finally figured out how to get Jo (the female lead) off the bed and what to have her do next.  (This is the first novel I’ve ever written where I don’t know the ending, and so it’s been tricky.)
In the afternoon, I’m heading to Monroe for a round or eight of shuffleboard, my favorite pastime in one of my favorite bars.

…For now, I’ll leave you with these things that made me think:

“Being defeated is often only a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent.”  Marilyn vos Savant
"The most absurd and reckless aspirations have sometimes led to extraordinary success." Vauvenargues
Wisdom comes alone through suffering.”  Aeschylus
"A man is only as good as what he loves." Saul Bellow
“ Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.” Abraham Lincoln
"Too many people overvalue what they are not and undervalue what they are." Malcolm Forbes
 "America is the land of second chances.  All you have to do is ask." Frank Farley

 "The past isn't dead.  It isn't even past." Faulkner

Wednesday, February 25, 2015


…Happy Wednesday.

…A few months ago after my dad died, I wrote a bunch of poetry as a means of releasing some emotional angst.  Most of the poems were autobiographical, or closely so.  I sent them off, but no one wanted them until Eunoia Review took ten of them. 
Here are two:

…And this is one of the first things I wrote when I started writing full-time five years ago (I forget who published it, but you should know it’s a tad creepy, ala The Twilight Zone):

                                                                   Hell Song

            Those words, written in capital letters on the inside cover of her social studies textbook caught twelve year old Abby Stevens unaware.  What kind of question was that?  What type of person would even ask such a ridiculous question, and for what purpose? 
            She studied the handwriting.  She pondered the question once more.  She closed her mouth and permitted herself a muffled, exasperated scream.
She thought it might have been Douglas messing with her again, so during dinner Abby asked him outright.
“I don’t have time for your stupid-ass school books,” her stepbrother said without hesitation.  Douglas had a genius I.Q. and, at fourteen years of age, was taking college courses.
            “Don’t say ‘stupid’,” Darla, Abby’s stepmother said.
            “Would you rather have me lie?” Douglas asked.  He was as clever as an armed jackal but ugly and as pale as an earthworm.
            “Douglas has a point,” Abby’s dad said.  Abby’s dad had a psychiatric practice that he ran in tandem with Darla.  In addition, Abby’s dad was a hold-over communist who, in the year of our Lord 1974, believed Fidel Castro had some ideas worth considering.
            “Well, someone wrote it,” Abby said, smacking the butt of her fork on the table.  “The book is new and now it’s ruined.”
            “It’s hardly ruined,” Darla said, jutting her chin and scraping her spoon louder than necessary against the glass serving bowl.
            “You shouldn’t be such a perfectionist,” Abby’s father said, using his tongue to pry a sprig of parsley from his molars.  “It’ll be your undoing.”
            “It’ll worsen your acne,” Darla said.
            I hate you, I hate you all, Abby said to herself, then asked aloud, “May I be excused?”
            “Now, you’re not going to sulk all night, are you?” Darla asked.

             Abby retrieved her textbook.  She decided not to let it out of her sight.  From her bedroom, she took the staircase that led into the parlor.  Her father had recently purchased a Steinway piano for the impractical purpose of filling a decorative niche, since no one played.  The instrument stood in the north corner of the room like the shiny shell of a black rhino halfway submerged in swamp water.
Abby sat at the bench and stared at the keys.  Their veneer glinted and shimmered because of the overhead chandelier light.  Abby had no idea what she was doing or why, but her hands had a mind of their own, a stubborn mind at that.  When she tried to control them a centrifugal force emanating from somewhere near her joints disallowed their being controlled, like two magnets pushing off from one another. 
“What the?”
Abby’s fingers took over from her hands, this set caressing the upraised black keys, this set fondling the squared-off ends of the white keys with a delicate pressure that could only be described as sensuous.
Her fingers plucked a few of the keys, shaping chords. 
What was happening?
The textbook flapped open in her lap: HOW DO YOU REGARD YOURSELF?
This was all very ludicrous. 
A wall mirror hung behind the piano.  (Every room in their house contained a minimum of three mirrors.)  Abby was too frightened to follow her fingers’ progress, and the textbook unnerved her as well, so she backed her willpower into a corner, demanding its support as she studied her reflection.  This seemed to work. 
Abby realized she didn’t really know herself very well, at least not her physicality.  She saw now that she was pretty in an impish way, yet her hair had a flat, sun-scorched lawn quality. 
“Ouch!”  The textbook shifted on Abby’s lap and a corner jabbed her in the thigh.
At that moment, Abby decided to regard herself as a redhead, with thick lustrous locks curling up around her neck and shoulders, same as that lady with the mole from “Gunsmoke,” Miss What’s-Her-Name?  Miss Kitty.
As the image started to take shape, Abby’s fingers found a rhythm on the key board and a wordless tune began playing.  Abby’s poor heart could barely keep up with its militant beating or the haunting arc of the tune.  She had no idea what to do, not that it mattered, since she was just coming along for the ride.  Her fingers tapped and flailed as if clawing for rescue, but four minutes later her wrists slammed on the keys, pounding the songs desperate conclusion.

In the morning Abby was not altogether shocked to discover her new mane.
At breakfast Douglas was the first to comment.  “Nice dye job, Strawberry Fields.  What’d you do, soak your head in jam?”
“Great God in Heaven, Abby, what have you done?” Darla asked, horrified, however the hitch in her voice, along with the exaggerated way she pressed a palm to her surgically-altered breasts, told Abby her stepmother was simply jealous as all get-out.
“I like it,” Abby’s father said. “It gives you a sort of regal Irish appeal.”
“But we’re Norwegian,” Darla said.
“Speak for yourself.” Abby said.

The next day Abby stepped into the parlor with her knees shaking and her insides gurgling.  Like a stalker at last coming face-to-face with its obsession, Abby was perplexed, with no next step in hand.
So she sat at the bench.  She clucked her tongue and rocked her feet.  She fingered the textbook and then yipped, snapping her hand in the air, the victim of a searing paper cut.  The slice looked innocent enough but it burned, soon bubbling up with crimson driblets.  The more Abby sucked, the more it bled.
“Come on, Hombre, toughen up,” she told herself.
Her hands took over from there.  The tune was combustible, chaotic, a car accident involving band equipment.  Her finger stung each time it tamped down, yet Abby was incapable of withdrawing it, of detaching herself from the bizarre cacophony taking place.  She could hear cymbals smashing against the sides of a sea cliff and then plunging into water, a song—if it could even be labeled that—of bedlam and madness.
Breathless and sweating, as if she’d just given birth, Abby relaxed on the bench.  Her hands robotically retracted into her lap when it was over.  She blinked several times.  Every one of the piano keys was blood-smeared.

The next day Abby stood at the bus stop for long two hours before calling it quits.
When the phone rang, she was eating Jif peanut butter straight out of the jar, with a spatula, in the middle of a “Partridge Family” music marathon, scream/singing the line, “Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me, just like me?” 
Douglas asked, “Has the school called yet?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Watch your fat lip.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ve tried to get in, but it’s you they want.”
“Once Satan sees it’s you, you’re in all right.  Trust me.”
“Listen up, bitch lips, school’s cancelled.”
“Dad and Mom have their hands full with the victims’ parents and they told me to call you.”
“Victims’ parents?”
“If you’d shut your pie hole for a minute I might be able to explain.”
It seemed preposterous that Abby could detest her stepbrother more, yet new ways and degrees presented themselves daily.
“Well?  Go ahead,” she said, affecting his tone, “babble on, Babylon.”
 There had been an accident last night with Abby’s bus, bus 106.  After the ‘Battle of the Bands’ competition, the vehicle got swallowed up in a cloud of fog, swerved and flew down a cliff, crashing into a lake.  Twelve students were dead, the rest in critical condition, including the driver.
“Is this another one of your sick jokes?” Abby asked.
“You want a sick joke, pull out a hand mirror and have yourself a look.”

Abby hung up the phone, slid back-to-the-wall until her butt hit the floor, and began a frantic discourse with herself:  It didn’t make sense.  Was she some kind of monster?  Had she caused the accident?  Or was it a coincidence?  Of course it was a coincidence.  But how had her hair turned red?  Could she have dyed it without remembering, and if she had, then didn’t that mean she really was a nut job?
            As a calming technique, Abby took several deep breaths but only got dizzy.  She fought off a drunken stagger once she was on her feet, moving down the hall toward the parlor.
Again, she had the text book with her.  She sat, her posture erect.  She opened the flap.  She read the inscription.  HOW DO YOU REGARD YOURSELF?  Instead of looking into the mirror, Abby closed her eyes.  She squeezed her lids so hard that her eyes began to burn.  Before she was aware of it, her fingers were on the piano keys, softly composing a catchy, arm-swinging riff.
When it was finished, Abby opened her eyes and brushed the tears away.
She knew what she’d just done, that she’d written a death-march to her brother.  If the pattern played itself out, she had killed him as certainly as if she’d lopped all his limbs off with a machete.


“Douglas told us what happened?”
“He did?”
“Yes, we’re very proud of you.”
Even Darla was nodding and smiling, if perhaps somewhat begrudgingly.
They were at the dinner table, just the three of them.  Meals were the only time the family ever gathered together.  Tonight Doug was missing.
“What did he tell you exactly?” Abby asked.
“He said you exposed him, called him out, so to speak.”
“Douglas is gay?”
“Funny!” Abby’s father said, working over a tough chunk of Salisbury steak.  “Your use of euphemisms worked, ‘Hell’ being an especially effective one.  The doctor said your brother’s been living in hell for the last three years.”
“So Doug’s not dead?”
“Doug said you convinced him to check himself into rehab, that it was your idea.”
 “Evidentially he can’t receive visitors for the first six weeks.  He’ll be detoxing during that time.  Some people say kicking heroin is akin to death, perhaps worse.”
A surge of ambivalence snaked through Abby’s innards, up her lungs and into her throat.  She sprang to her feet and was already sprinting before she could ask to be excused.  In the bathroom Abby vomited a tightly-spooled splatter, rinsed her mouth out several times, and dabbed her lips with a towel.
Gasping, she stared at her pale, sweat-soaked complexion in the glass.  She remembered Douglas’s comment about how she should look at herself in a mirror if she wanted a sick joke.
She threw up once more.
She hadn’t killed her stepbrother after all, she’d saved him.  Now how could that be? 


In the days that followed a bewildering war of confliction raged within Abby.   She had no intention of ever visiting the parlor again, yet the decision became something beyond her, an unsupported and untouchable choice that was not hers alone to make. 
No longer was it just Abby’s fingers that had become independent articles, but now the rest of Abby’s body was beginning to follow suit, betraying her in subtle ways.  For instance, she’d decide to get herself a drink of orange juice, but instead of turning toward the kitchen, an invisible force would bum-rush her, stiff-arm her like a gust of wind out of nowhere,  and then, off-balance, she’d open her eyes to discover herself repositioned a few feet from the parlor.
Just as a dying person recognizes when death is at the door, Abby understood that her internal biology had been invaded by an insurgency that had set up camp for good.  Soon her mental state would be attacked as well.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” she said out loud as a joke, “how much time do I have?”
No doctor could help her, witchdoctor or otherwise, and as such, Abby decided to extricate herself.

Abby planned to run away from home, to get as far from the parlor and the piano as possible.  Before that, though, she wanted to shred the textbook, or at least the disturbing passage which had seemed to set all this in motion.  However, when she tried to tear the cover from its binding, the book kept snapping free, as if it contained a coiled spring, as if it was booby-trapped or—worse-- alive.
“I’ll burn the damn thing,” Abby thought, “that’s what I’ll do.” So she set the text atop the faux stone logs and flipped the wall switch and waited for the abrupt, convulsive “Poof!” sound that always followed three seconds after the fireplace was turned on. 
Nothing happened.  The fireplace was “Poof!-less.”
 Abby went through the same ritual with the upstairs fireplace.  When that one failed as well, she tried the other five fireplaces, all without success.
In the kitchen she turned the stove dial to HIGH but got no response, not even a propane odor.
“Fine!” she screamed, flinging the textbook in the air.  When it hit a porcelain pedestal, shattering a bust of some eyeless Grecian, Abby pounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
She stuffed her backpack with two changes of clothing, extra underwear, a couple of ladybug barrettes, as well as essential sundries.  When she picked up the bag the textbook was there on the mattress, so she picked it up and threw it against the wall, ran out and left her house for good.
Or so she thought.
At the edge of the yard, Abby collapsed.

When she came to, Abby lay in her bedroom, head propped up with several pillows, surrounded by her father, Darla and another woman Abby didn’t recognize.  The final scene in “The Wizard of Oz” immediately came to mind.  Abby didn’t know if she was hallucinating or dreaming.  It also occurred to her that she could be dead, just moments from having an out-of-body experience.
“You have a strange strain of flu.”
“Yes, unfortunately your mother and I are on our way to the airport.  We’re hosting a conference in Phoenix all week.  In any event, this is Mrs. Hagen.”
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Hagen said.  She had thin hair the color of cobwebs, with dark coffee bean eyes and a powered mass of jagged wrinkles for a face.
“Mrs. Hagen is your new nanny.”
“But I don’t want a nanny.”
“Of course you don’t, but Mrs. Hagen also plays piano.”
“Oh, no.”
“She’s agreed to give you lessons as an added bonus.”
Abby shook her head side to side so hard it pinched her neck.  “No way.  I don’t ever want to touch that thing again, it’s cursed.”
“See, her fever really has taken root,” Darla said, pleased as punch.
“I’m not delusional!” Abby shouted.  “Well, maybe I am, but if I am, then that means I’m physically healthy.”
“She’s not making sense,” Darla said.
“I don’t have the stupid fucking flu.”
“See, that type of language.  It’s not like our Abby at all,” Darla said, and with Mrs. Hagen’s toothless grin looming like a dried out lake bed, and Abby digesting Darla’s invocation of the couplet, “our Abby”, Abby passed out.


At the breakfast table Mrs. Hagen didn’t bother hiding the fact that she was gawking at Abby.  “Eat some breakfast.  You need to your strength.”
“I want to go to school,” Abby said.  “I feel pretty good.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hagen said.  Her black bean eyes stared over the rim of her huge coffee mug.  Abby noticed the woman’s fingernails were charcoal, not painted, but rather rotting from the inside.  “Your public education days are done.  In addition to being your nanny, your parents have asked that I home-school you.”
“What a crock!”
“Is it?   Is it now?  Well I don’t think so.  And I don’t think you will either.  My specialty is music, piano.”
“Goodie for you.”
Mrs. Hagen shifted in her chair, swiveling her head.  She looked one hundred and twenty years old, powdery and pasty-faced, a mummy with white chin hair.  Abby leaned back in her chair, almost tipping over, frightened of being bit or attacked.
“Don’t you understand, Abby, you’re the reason I’m here?”
“I’m young but I’m independent.   I don’t need any—“
Mrs. Hagen wasn’t listening.  “I heard your playing and I came as quickly as I could.”
“You heard my playing?”
Nodding, Mrs. Hagen’s licked her chapped lips and tweaked several stiff chin whiskers between her forefinger and thumb.  “Yesss,” Mrs. Hagen said.
“You heard me through the walls, from another state or another country, from wherever you live?” 
“Holy shit.”


“You have a gift and you must learn to use it in… the correct manner.”
They were in the parlor.  The textbook sat on the music stand, the flap open.
Abby wanted to puke but her stomach was empty.  She looked at the inscription, then at Mrs. Hagen and said, “Hey, did you write that?”
Mrs. Hagen smiled a mildewed jack-o’-lantern smile.  “Now what do you think?”


Their lessons weren’t really lessons at all, rather Mrs. Hagen presented Abby with a list of names and landmarks, some Abby knew—The Space Needle, Burt Reynolds, Jane Fonda—and others she didn’t—Helmut Schmidt, Nelson Rockefeller, the Brandenburg Gate.
“One at a time, dear.  Focus on one at a time, a song for each.”
“You want me to kill these people, destroy these buildings, these places?”
“That’s a harsh way of putting it.”
“Well, how would you put it?”
“Your task is… simply to play, to exercise your gift.”
“That sounds like a bunch of bull.”
“You have a gift, Abby.  It’s your destiny.  This list is a fulfillment of your destiny.  You’ll see.”
“What if I refuse?”
“That’s impossible.  Haven’t you already tried?”
So the ancient hag knew about the faulty fireplaces, about the failed runaway attempt.  Of course she knew.
Abby closed her eyes.  Her fingers sprang forth, pressing down on the ivories.
“There, very good,” Mrs. Hagen said, her inflection now shrill, her fingertips trembling with excitement.  “Now picture—“
Mrs. Hagen’s voice disappeared.  Abby locked out sound.  This must be how it is for deaf people, Abby thought.
Mrs. Hagen’s mouth was moving and the old hag was flapping her hands as if she were conducting an orchestra or trying to fly. 
Abby closed her eyes to concentration.  She had learned a thing or two about willpower and what it could do once music—and this piano--partnered.
This is how Abby regarded herself.
She struck the keys and pictured Mrs. Hagen’s hands clamping around her neck, squeezing hard, cutting off Abby’s air supply, Abby’s face going beet-colored, then purple, then bone-white.  She pictured squad cars and Mrs. Hagen in handcuffs.  She pictured it all and set it to music, then began to play.

Monday, February 23, 2015


…It’s so sunny I’m having to duck down as I write this.  Better that than be frozen on the east coast, so I’m not complaining by any stretch.  Even my dog has moved into the few shady spots on my office floor.

…I’ve happily had this little ditty stuck in my head all day:

…I don’t know why, year after year, I keep thinking The Oscars are going to be anything other than what they are, which is a mostly bland affair with winners thanking everyone on the planet.  Neil Patrick Harris was surprisingly not funny or entertaining, and there were lots of odd moments and numbers, though John Legend and Common doing “Glory” was a standout, as was Lady Gaga belting out vintage Julie Andrews.  Also, Tim McGraw’s touching tribute to Glen Campbell nearly had me in tears.  I’m going to listen to that song—“I’m Not Going To Miss You”--in a few minutes.

…Here are some things I like to kick of the week”

“It’s the gestures that make a girl feel special.” Sara Lippmann

“We tend to make courage too dramatic.  Courage is often doing something simple, unpleasant, or boring again and again until we get it down pat. People who are physically challenged and who have the determination to get around their handicaps are great examples because their courage makes them test their limits every day.”   Dave Thomas

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Maya Angelou

“The manner in which it is given is worth more than the gift.” Pierre Corneille

 “There’s nothing like holding something that is alive. Most people don’t know this but life is 
transferable through the touch of live entities. This is why petting zoos exist. It is why people run their fingers over tree bark. It is why people hold hands and why people have sex. When you do these things you are more alive than usual.” Tim Steele

“A happy life is one which is in accordance with its own nature.”  Marcus Annaeus Seneca

“I believe the recipe for happiness to be just enough money to pay the monthly bills you acquire, a little surplus to give you confidence, a little too much work each day, enthusiasm for your work, a substantial share of good health, a couple of real friends and a wife and children to share life's beauty with you.”
 J. Kenfield Morley

“It seems clear even in these years of squalid degradation that having risked death for the sake of honor is better than having risked dishonor for the sake of life.” Mark Helprin

“Genuine security arises from actual, first-hand knowledge that one is both capable and worthy of achieving happiness (through conscious, responsible action) and, once having attained it, that he deserves it.”  Michael J. Hurd

"No home is complete without affection. You can have all the Picassos in the world or walls made of gold, but without affection it's nothing." Claudio Luti

“Whatever job I'm doing I try to do the best I can with it and enjoy it for what it is and what it entails. I passed the time in the shoe shop by trying to be the best damn shoe salesman in the whole of New
Jersey.  The fact that I didn't succeed and ended up washing the coffee cups in the kitchen didn't really matter. I just tried to get those coffee cups the cleanest they'd ever been. Playing in the band was another job.  The only difference was, I was finally doing the one thing that I had any aptitude for.” -- Jon Bon Jovi

“The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us.” Ray Bradbury

Saturday, February 21, 2015


This is the first night I can remember there being a cloudless sky, everything baby blue except where the early twilight kisses the tips of cedar and evergreen trees, looking almost white around the outlines.  My dog is curled up asleep on the floor left of my foot, next to a Syracuse cap I sometimes wear when the sun streams through the tops of my windows, almost blinding me.

In a room only a few feet away someone is cooking dinner.  I can hear the clanking sounds and smell the scent of jasmine rice, and something like chicken has seeped beneath the door slit.

I'm one of the few who still buys cd’s.  I’m a relic, I know.  One of the new cd's that came in the mail had a stapled lyric sheet in it but even wearing readers I still couldn’t make out the faint, tiny print.  I really am a relic.
Sometimes I’m sad and I know why, and sometimes I’m sad and don’t know why.  The latter is always worst.

In case you were wondering, I’m not sad now, just in a wistful, contemplative mood, trying to land on something that will be the genesis of a poem or story.  Used to be I could never turn it off: everything—a line in a film or sentence in a book or lyric from a song, even a certain sound—would trigger a story.  Now I worry I might not ever have anything meaningful to write about again.

One of the first poems I ever wrote--for, and about a girlfriend--was this:

Lady By The Sea

Beauty had never done as much,
nor the sea in all its wonder,
but you,
walking barefoot and free

(Disclosure: I never witnessed her walking barefoot on the beach.)

I discovered she that was using birth control.  This was on our second date, so I realized she wasn’t necessary taking precautions for me and so I wrote this:

The Pill

Take a pill
and swallow it first,
then some water to quench your thirst.
Hop in bed,
your pleasure be.
No need to worry,
she’s pregnant-free.

(This one was meant as a bitter stab, but simply came out sounding juvenile.)

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.

Sometimes a blog--for me anyway--is a lot like a diary.  At least it is tonight.

The sky had turned a deeper shade of blue, hinging on purple.

I’m going to go read now, hoping that will spur some inspiration.

I hope your Saturday night is one of the best of your life.

Another look at the sky and it has turned obsidian.

Sweet dreams.

Friday, February 20, 2015


In This Story Everyone Is Guilty

We are a small collective of hard truths.
We are Fear Death Love and Sex
overlapping and unwinding.
If you don’t say it, does that make it a lie?
All this time I believed words were important.

Yesterday the queen parceled out grace
while people painted pretty pastel eggs.
Today, they located The God Particle in deep, deep space
yet it’s been raining here
since I lifted the lid off this thing.

Tomorrow we might have more time
to agree about what it all means,
but for now we’re too busy dancing,
stripping the flesh from each other
just because
we can.

No One Tells the Truth Anymore

There are roads here that lead to cliffs
and people know things they will never share,
even if threatened at gun point.

Someone told me white is no longer a color,
but how about black?
I know what became of Pluto,
stripped of its rank after so many flat-lined years.

I can’t be bothered by any of that.
I’m busy crushing daisies,
counting the creases in my skin,
jailhouse hash marks of the days
I’ve been
without you.

Everyone Knows You’re Famous

All my friends are talking about leaving,
yet you’re sitting pretty in a pool of pancake syrup. 
I never understood why you were such a glutton.
Guardian angels hike up their skirts.
Little girls give each other identical war wounds.
Billboards and pool boys have each taken turns with your face
while I wear my broken bone structure
like ragged skeins of wool.

You needn’t worry so much.  People have comebacks all the time
and grace is gotten cheap these days.
Just look at your last man who
hung himself from that tree.

Nobody Wins

Across state they are shooting at the moon.
I’m never sure who is right and who is wrong
because I tend to crumple when unfairly ambushed.

My Dad’s clan were strong people.
Calluses like mitts.  Eyes that could cut cords of wood.

When I fell in love the first time
my sister said, “I should slap your face.”

All my choices have come with warning labels lately.
There could be a refuge for people who dance hard,
but I’ll never know.

In some countries monkey brains is a delicacy.
Here, we stiff arm cows while
hillbillies shoot down the moon
just to see whose side it’s on.


On Wednesday
I wrote you a poem.
It was honest and sweet and
would have made you smile.

I described how shy you were those first few talks.
I mentioned your eyes quite a bit,
the way their color shifts in the light,
shimmering when wet.
I even admitted how much I miss you
as well as some of the things I’d do
just to hear your voice,
smell your hair,
feel your skin.

But by the time I got to the last word
the paper combusted,
alarms when off,
and I sat there while sprinklers doused every stitch of this room.
I had a hard time explaining it to the firemen.
I had a hard time explaining it.