Poem in Which the Word Is Not Spoken
There was never any evidence of it, between
them: my parents slept with their door wide open, in case
we should call, my father’s breath so close
I could hear the scrape of his snoring
Waiting
Things don’t happen, they appear.
When I ask for a spoon,
they bring me a fork;
waiting has turned my spoon
into a fork.
Poison in Every Puff
You can quit.
We can help.
Times are bad,
but what else
is new?
Needle-Nose Pliers
Do you know what is never the right tool for the job?
Needle-nose pliers. Anytime I use needle-nose pliers
it is with hopeless resignation.