Nitwit


In the third floor waiting room,
you sat in a rigid chair wringing
your hands.
I asked if you wanted a magazine.
You shook your head, frowning.
When I said I meant bullets, you
turned away and held up your hand
like a traffic cop, afraid to make eye
contact, lest your mascara would run.
You said I was such a nitwit.
I thought the name was fitting, though
I may have preferred something akin
to my teenage strut. 
Driving through Amish country, I 
gazed over acres of bountiful fields
and absently remarked, “they sure
are growing a lot of shit over there.”
You managed to contain yourself
and said I was such a nitwit. If we
get another dog, I’m going to name
him Nitwit. You’ll have to come up
with a new label for me.
Just don’t call me Baby.   





The Ever Shrinking Universe


So I come padding out of the bedroom
in manly slippers and she says “Yo Baby.”
We do this silly fist bump thing and
I ask, 
“Djeet?”  She says “Cheerios.”
There’s
much to do, so we plan.
She’ll drive down
and I’ll drive back.
Now we’re outside
Hallmark
eating marshmallow Santas and 
she asks why we still laugh. I
explain
that the world gets smaller
everyday.
There is no room left
for suicide bombers,
federal deficits,
troubled souls.
She remembers
that we have to
get a card and send money
to the paperboy, but I put that
thought
behind me because I
can’t find my way out
of J.C. Penny’s.
She laughs those pathetic 
tears and
takes my hand. “Well,” I say,
“the store is just too big.” So, we shrink
down, our world a snow globe. Shaken,
it’s nothing but a swirl of flakes. Wound up,
we hear nothing but a twinkle
of mirth.
  
First appeared in The Westchester Review



Segue


being enamored to things;
the taste of cinnamon and blueberries,
the red beginning to flourish 
on laden branches along the highway,
a scent left on her bed clothes

But, in the end,
it is the long conceptual composition.
A crescendo
sets my nape hairs to bristle
as it takes me full circle
to a melody that ends
just as it began.

In the end, given the warmth
of her hand in mine, it is
these melodies I will miss the most.  

First appeared in The Black Fox Literary Review