today the sun erupted at dawn
molten orange tongue
in a sneer of bloodred clouds
she spits her guts
at a fading night
burns holes in the
retreating gray
reminds me
of what trembles
on the other side
of my life
when Gracie rubs her cheek in dried dog poop I can never tell if it’s Christian Dior or some cheap gaudy knock off don’t know whether she’s hoping to attract a handsome senior or trying to turn off th
dug in with fingernails unable to crawl back to my 50’s losing the rear view of my 40’s looking down I see a murky future straight up the dusty crystal of the past 70 will come with a slow slip an
these lips would nibble sunlight if not for chicken pot pies or suckle my good memories but for perfectly ripe avocados I’d drink a fresh morning wind if iced tea or ginger ale weren’t available at le