“Packed Lunch”

Image courtesy of L. Alvarado

“Packed Lunch”

Cherry tomatoes, celery.

Mini-carrots, stringy cheese.

Butter crackers, square Cheez-Its.

snack-sized baggies, so it fits.

Raspberry juice box, flexi straw,

ice pack cooling, as it thaws.

My day brings many, many things,

while you’re at school, I’m in meetings.

The only way I get to be,

there for you, is when you eat.

So, look at each and every piece,

and know I put my love in between.

When I make your lunch for you,

I’m hoping your day goes smooth.

We’ll meet up later,

to hash it out.

And you’ll tell me,

what to keep out.

And when I go to make it new,

I’ll remember the revised menu.

“Low Battery”

“Low Battery”

Where went the urgency we once had?

What happened to our fluid flow?

Life got a hold of both of us,

and placed passion in escrow.

Get getting gotten gone,

resolve to start again.

A Once to hang Upon,

beginning nears an end.

The daily grind of living,

smothers spontaneity.

A self-imposed life sentence,

oh, dream of liberty.

End of days, dark silence.

Sitting hand in hand.

A quieted alliance,

is what true love demands.

“Barely Hidden Tattoo”

https://pixabay.com/get/e837b50920f0013ed1534705fb0938c9bd22ffd41cb3174493f1c078a1/tattoo-1246840_1920.jpg?attachment

“Barely Hidden Tattoo”

Barely hidden tattoo,

peeking over the neckline of your tank top.

I can’t rightly say if it’s the tip of an iceberg,

or a singular disembodied something.

What does it represent?

A victory?

A regret?

A tribute?

Is it a mocking representation of you in a foreign language?

Did you get it in Bangkok?

When you bent over to pick up your dropped pack of cigarettes,

I espied an ornate belt wrapping your midriff.

I’ve heard others vulgarly call them Tramp Stamps.

For what it’s worth, you don’t look like a Tramp.

Do you want to come back to my place for a drink?

I’ll show you my ink.

The doorman at my building has an arm sleeve tattoo.

I saw it that time his arm got stuck in the elevator.

when he tried to stop the doors from closing on Ms. Jenkins.

Are tattoos copyrighted?

Who gets the copyright?

You, or the tattoo artist?

My tattoo honors a fallen fetus.

My friend miscarried.

It was a boy, it wasn’t mine, but I wanted her to like me.

She got a tattoo of the father’s name instead.

They overdosed in a trailer two summers ago.

The ink ran out.

“Confide in You”

“Confide in You”

You constantly apprise me,

of all your life’s defeats.

You itemize injustice,

casting open ended Tweets.

Your tactless tirades, tiresome.

Your suffering’s not unique.

If you look past your nose for once,

there are others seeking peace.

The egocentric predicament,

barely allows for this.

A slave to self-absorbed importance,

a textbook Narcissist.

It seems like wasted energy,

your reserve, an endless pit.

Try empathy on for size,

perhaps, a better fit?

“Hickarado Incorporated”

“Hickarado Incorporated”

wedding

Thirteen years of friendship.

Partnered by choice.

Three testaments to teamwork.

A dog, a girl, two boys.

pats fans

A house once, now a home.

A barking business in the wings.

School runs and droopy diapers.

Life’s marrow, these little things.

begobah

Regardless of the ledger,

and all that we’ve been through.

There is no other human,

I’d do it with, but you.

skys the limit

 

Thank you for your attention,

and continual support.

Life’s easier to weather,

With you, Lissette, I’m sure.

DC