sting.

The Police squeak through my mind,
"Don't stand, don't stand so, don't stand
so close to me."
But really.

My comfort zone is being severely
compromised
by your lack of intelligent
conversation, the inane dribble
that tumbles out of your mouth
in rapid succession.
For the sake of all within earshot

STOP.

dear elton john.

Eight years old, my one shining day of the year.
But you weren’t there.
All I wanted was to hear you sing
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” or
perhaps a rousing round of “Benny and the Jets.”
You could cut my cake and sneak a piece
before you left in your gleaming limousine.
I wouldn’t mind.
I waited for you by the front door for hours,
expecting you to roll up with an entourage.
Mr. Fantastic, you didn’t have the decency to
call or write. Perhaps you’re not as Fantastic as
I thought.

babel.

We babble like babies,
saliva seeping from between our lips.
I can’t understand a word you say,
and you don’t care enough to try.
Yet this continues, this mediocre
game of cat and mouse.
My grueling effort is useless.
If I walk away now, I might
retain, regain my sanity.
Any longer, and I’ll be cooing.

juanita.

These purple flowers are
nothing extraordinary, arriving
every Spring like clock-work.
Four tiny petals thrown onto
a bone thin stem,
but they remind me of you.
A mini bouquet that you held
firmly in your wrinkled hand,
telling me to think of you when
the purples start to grow.
As if I could ever forget.
They contrast with your green eyes
that mirror mine and the sun
casts a glow on your pale, aging skin.
Red, painted lips smile at me encouragingly,
almost like a photograph.
No, I won’t forget.

you'll love it.

I’d have been like Joseph
with his robe of many colors,
only mine made of silk.
Royal blues and purples that
fade to splashes of red and pink,
cascading silently to the floor,
covering my ankles.
You described it so well,
my mind concocted a picture
of it draping me.
I became Cleopatra, majestic,
regal, coal lining my eyes.
But you were the adder that
deceptively sunk its fangs into
my imagination,
silently watching as the robe pooled
around my feet before you slunk away.

whale songs.

Our breath fogs either side
of this glass pane that
divides my flesh from yours.
My inhale matches your exhale,
but I can’t breathe you in.
My palm reaches for your face,
deflected, leaving a printed streak
on the translucent traitor.
Your eyes yank mine,
expressing what would only sound like
whale songs.
Your frustration seethes, a crescendo
that plateaus to anger and
your words are lost.
One final slam of your fists on
thick glass,
and your rubber soles retreat
while I’m left trying.

you don't.

The doors open and I begin to walk
down an aisle littered with petals.
Step, together, step, together, step.
I’ll make my way eventually.
I catch your eyes as you stand at its end,
they're filled to the brim
with anticipation and wonder,
and I imagine my future shaded
in your blue.
A message travels from my mind to
yours, its tiny molecules traveling above our heads.
I pass your mother, her head held high and tears squeaking
through tiny slits, her hand enveloped with your father’s.
I take my place at the end of the walkway,
moments before cellos and violins are
plucked and strummed.
Father and daughter step together, step together,
and you catch her eyes, smiling the biggest smile I’ve seen in years.
One by one, my dreams exploded like balloons in the stratosphere.
And with that ring, you were wed.

titan tires and the tiny toads.

Bloated and fading,
they dot my path like landmines.
Tiny gray tigerish skins stretch across the gravel
and decay slowly
as tires tread over their smashed skulls.
Sunken eyes and lips that appear to be smiling,
their once red tongues rolled out
like award season red carpets.
I step gingerly, reminding myself that
they were once alive,
that I wouldn’t want rubber soles
stamping on me when I’m gone.
Literally littered, the asphalt becomes
a battleground between the Titan tires
and the tiny toads.

mai.

A gentle mist soothes the soil
after a harsh winter’s ravishment.
We shrug off our heavy hats and scarves,
matching accessories to drab winter grays,
for something more lithe, sleek.
Spring accumulates into larger droplets,
fat and full, never missing my face,
fogging my horn-rimmed glasses.
I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving,
grateful for multi-colored perennials
and waking to the roar of the mighty lawn mower.
Windows sneak open, a tender breeze
inhales and exhales through the screen.
April has vanished and May has come.

drunken demands give way to reservations.

inspired by "Imaginary Love" by Rufus Wainwright

Rain trickles onto the cobblestone
mixing with the smell of expensive champagne
and the biting taste of nicotine.

Schubert stumbles out of an
open window
and glides through the damp night air
inviting us to live for the night,
but only for tonight.

You call a cab, hand hailing through
the fog-pollution haze
and inside we slide,
into your hotel, between Egyptian sheets
but only for tonight.

The concierge knows to call at
seven,
but my limbs will be untangled from
yours by five,
heels clicking against the pavement
by six.