The Baseball Cap was Moonlighting
as a kitchen pot. Or at least that’s what I thought
when I saw it hanging over the stove. And I wondered
if it wanted to replace the sweating hair that usually filled it
with gooey strands of pasta? And would it even know
the difference? Or maybe it was morose, and dangling
from the final thread in a potential gothic suicide.
Was it dreaming of disintegrating flames? A final warmth?
An embrace that would quickly carry its fibers into nothing
more than ash and lingering memories? Despondent now,
I plucked it from its tiny metal tether and carried it to the laundry.
Whatever intention was lingering in this brainless head-mold,
it was nothing that could not be washed away. I dropped it in,
and smiled. Everyone and everything deserved a chance
at a fresh start.
Self-Portrait as Sea Crate
Black and white lines define me.
I am finite. Creature
of water and land, I can thrive
in any condition. You cannot
suffocate or drown me.
I crawl up walls, stick
to floors. Suspended
animation is my gift. I breed and leave.
Survival is my first, last and middle name.
I Refused to Fishhook a Piece of Chicken
from my niece’s mouth. She had fallen
asleep, mid-chew, in her carseat, finally
losing the battle between exhaustion and hunger.
Her mother ordered the immediate removal
of the remnant from her mouth with a force
she did not have the power to exert. I understood
the potential danger that echoed with the command,
but just could not bring myself to intrude
on her somnolent peace, or her desire to retain
a tangible piece of her favorite comfort
food as I could see it gripped tightly
as if her teeth were hands, and the offensive
fried fowl was the only blanket in sight.
