The Party

- never ends it seems

Glowing red and yellow, with

Glasses raised, as wafts of warm soup

And cold air envelops bare arms and

Neatly waxed strands

Hair-raising Top 40s set on loop

More music listened to than one should

Salivated tongues wag, dripping over

Rolled over fats

On plates of porcelain, such 

Cold plates and warm food

Cold heart and warm hands

Cold feet and warm lights

Flickering hopes and dreams 

All condensed in a moment

That breathes life again into 

Ordinary conversations

Ordinary people

and original rites and rituals

The candle is lit

Cold plates and warm food

Cold heart and warm hands

It’s a merry time around the huckleberry tree

The Cobbler

I walked by, day by day
The roadside where he sat, with his plastic stool
And tools of varying sizes
Metal and wood converging with the smell of old age
He smiled a toothless grin
Creases feebly collecting like mud puddles
A buoyant wart in a sea of marbled lines

And shoes
In various shades of earth
and concrete
and deep voids of black
Hanging by threads undone
Hands moist with polish and fun
A tap-tap-tap with an wooden gun

No expensive paper needed to dream, there

The Modern Depression

At grandpa's house lay a chair.
It was grey, with matted tears
Like a festering rash, old hair
Fabric clutching its wooden frame with lots of care

And when I sat on it,

A creaking welcomes me to his embrace,
its warmth a respite from the cold and rainy outside
A gentle touch on my cheek
and loving words at my face

A suckling of a teet

I lay, a lazy drone of the fridge
Listening to the old radio blare the 70s
Once again a lil' kid
Sinking into a beautiful dream

When my phone rings.