wet

rain comes down as if God lost someone.
like i should expect to see shut-eyed orangutans
and pot-bellied tribesman stalking dinner
outside my window; water beading-up
on their slick straight bangs.

but i dare not rise from pillowed comfort
to separate the hanging sliced privacy
to bolster my suspicions.

instead, i lay like stones
that are perfect for skipping,
while God uses window sills and wet
to send monday morning morse code.

patio penance

i’ve been digging like lucas with the frigid grip.

or andy dufresne.
but I’m not being obtuse,

just relentless
with a spade and a some old sneaks
that i forsook like

those drunken college years.

unkempt exposed stomach soon to be crème brulee.
soufflé becoming syn co pat ed from countless crust punctures.

such is soil toil.