Rust

A Mockery

Soaps

Between 183 and Liberty Church

The spot near the plastics plant,

Bare earth scooped neatly into mounds,

Preparations for a new recycling plant.

Skittering along the debris of a

Previously undisturbed wild,

Before my memories formed.

Eating hot pink clovers that tasted like

Sweet carrots, as mama said they would,

My little brother hopping in the lazy puddles.

This disturbed earth not a quarter mile

From my new home on the outskirts of town,

Our lot barely having grown it's beard of grass.

The newest children in my small neighborhood

(if there are any) Will never know this place

Apart from where their fathers might work

The spot between the 183 and Liberty Church

Where once was trees and clovers

Where once kids scrambled over piles of dirt

Where once all seemed well in the world

Where earliest memories were made

In My Own Oubliette

Before you a love song never took shape 

never blinked at me with blue-green eyes,

never stabbed me. 

Before you a breakup song never 

laid on my shoulder

and cried with me 

Your love made it all make sense. 

This is why teardrops were on guitars. 

This was why la vie was en rose. 

I only wish I had left love

safely buried

on pages and stanzas.

Irish Spring

a raspy laugh, sharp as cheap soap a mind's movie on a honey-smacked whorl