Angel on Her Shoulder


It’s just a hair, maybe
an inch or so long, not
perfectly straight
nor perfectly curved.
It’s of a shape and color
all too familiar to us.
It looks for all the world
like one of the millions
we swept, dusted and
vacuumed up for 13 years.

She keeps her photo bedside,
like her yearning to see,
to touch her angel dog again
after these three empty years.
This may explain the dream visit
they shared two nights ago,
but not the single golden hair
she found this morning on
the shoulder of the robe
I gave her last Christmas.

Sweetly spooky slice of life, for which I have not nor need any explanation, from the lives lived here.

Alone in My Crowded Bed


Some days I lie in wait
for dawn to come, knowing
I’ll never return to
the sweet darkness until tonight.
The thoughts, the images, the hopes
(dashed and otherwise),
and the guilt crowd my consciousness
out of bed like they all
rolled over toward me at once.

And nowhere was there room
for any dreams.

Not under my pillow,
nor beneath the bed or
in the jewelry box, because
I would treasure a dream so much.
Tonight, I’ll lie in wait
in silence behind the darkness
for one, like I wait
for dawn come morning,
alone in my crowded bed.

Had a free ten minutes while granddaughter slept. She awakened as I placed the ultimate punctuation on that crowded bed. One hundred words exactly. Funny how that happens.

Beyond the Obvious

Beyond the obvious — you can’t
be seen or touched — sometimes
I wonder if you ever existed at all.
Oh, I’m sure someone can run
their fingers across
what I imagined was skin akin
to an infant’s. But I never did.
So I can’t attest to what I’m sure
must be your tactile perfection.

Beyond the obvious, you know,
I’ll never see you anymore,
I wonder now if I ever really did.
Oh, I’m sure I saw a somebody
who zinged my rods and cones
in a kaleidoscopic frenzy of
retinal fireworks. But the brood
of hairballs in my control room
have been known to hit the catnip
pretty hard after spying an enticing
wiggle on the end of a string.

Beyond the obvious, you never
really saw or touched me, either.
Never felt the goosebump pebbles
the mere thought of your skin
brushing mine would excite.
You never saw the hope and fear
the increments of intimacy we
never suffered wrought upon
this shadow you stepped across.

I guess, as far as you’re concerned,
I never existed either. And maybe
I don’t. I’m just a ghost who floats
among the phantoms and wispy memories
of mirages where we hoped to find
solace and the nonexistent answers
to our supplication. I guess I’m just
another nothing chasing nothing nowhere.
Until now, I never realized that was
beyond the obvious.