Polaroid Poetry

It’s Sunday morning,
and Death is doing the crossword,
there, in his flannel sweatpants-
teeth rattling with droughts
from his mug of bitterness,
(taken with a dash of cinnamon).

Raising a bony eyebrow, he suggests,
It’s not you; it’s me.
It wasn’t a long-term thing, he said,
Just a bit of fun for the evening.
He runs an icy finger up my spine, grabs his coat,
and leaves.

- 2/07/08

Dump trucks, scabs, bits of wool -
all the things that never got a line,
this is for you.

- 1/26/08

When I am tumbled, hung to dry,
will they baste me with white wine
or just let me fry?

- 1/13/08

Come, those lingering in coffee mugs,
sucked into the isolation of society.
Dance with me in secret groves;
pluck the fruit from its burdened vine,
and we will gorge ourselves together-
fingers sticky with purple nectar.

- 12/10/07