He fell out and broke apart
After she opened the box.
Lost all his value, sure,
But dents gave him character.
musings & scribbles
The pizza box,
Placed carelessly
Above the trash bin,
Has, “Thank You!,”
Printed ever-so-nicely
On the side facing out.
She is so beautiful.
Even in a darkened room,
Lit by the glow of a phone.
I could have been a better son,
A better man, a better husband,
So I could be a better person
And be a better father, a better dad.
33 and a father,
never thought i’d bother
to be responsible.
33 and a father,
got myself a daughter,
a reason
to be responsible.
33 and a father,
a husband still trying
to be human,
but still well-defended.
I wish you knew me,
But all you know
Is what you can see.
And I can’t change that,
No, I can’t now;
It’s who I’ve become
And who I’ll always be.
Your fingers run hot against my arm,
Brushing toward my own, opening a conversation
About where we are, about where we were
Before we got to where we are. And we can sit
Here, amongst the passion and words wanting
To be said with touch and presence– amongst
The passion and words wanting to be said,
But I’d rather touch you instead. And I trace
The ands I say to find my way behind your eyes,
To find my way into your world, where I can
Curl up and stay, forgetting how we got here–
Forgetting we were ever not here. And your lips,
Inviting me, show teeth so slight’ly.
I, the tumbleweed,
Long dry and uprooted,
Play atop the grains of sand.
Your husband misses you,
Mrs. Staines.
Everything I do
I try to make it for you;
Can’t say I always do,
But I try to make it for you.
I’m sure I’ve failed you;
Not that I meant to,
But I know I can’t be
Always who you’re wanting.
Your eyes
Shake me down,
Take my smile,
Turn these words
Around, into shivers,
Crawling out in sweat;
The scent
From your lungs
Slows my own,
Breaking rhythm
As I find yours,
Pulling the tips
Of fingers together.