Tipping my hand Poetry

Sorting love

We were in love for several minutes
soldered together by your loneliness
and my greedy longing.
When it was over, we knew it wasn’t,
but we made the choices
necessary for the those
clinging to us like beautiful webs.
We went off into our vacuums,
sure neither of us would ever die.


The supermarket line in the wintertime of Trump

The antsy woman ahead of me
in the check out line
smells musty, like Beelzebub must.
She rolls a sticky, unblinking eye
over the couple in front of her.
They are conversing in another tongue.
Here it comes, the offal moment.
Emboldened by America’s foulest,
she plants her feet and howls
at them, “Speak English, you’re in America!”
like she’s been a true believer all her days.
The couple she’s aiming at turn to stone.
The kid clerk is trying to squeeze
into the change draw between dimes.
What do I do? I stand discreetly behind,
dizzy with the guilt of a righteous coward.
I peck at her kind daily in my writing.
There I’m fearless and able,
like a crow turning over magma.
Now I blush and clutch my cans of beer
as if they will fill the chalices of my redemption.