You've become
A bad habit
Like Coke
First thing in the morning,
Or endless bottles of
Perrier
I can ill afford
But seem to crave all afternoon
Procrastinating, like
Not cleaning the lint screen
Each time I use the dryer
Thinking next time will turn into
This time
Reading until two am when
I have to get up at five
Skipping supper
Buying sweaters
I know I'll never wear
Collecting toe rings
Lip gloss
In every sticky shade
Not really needing any of these things
But not wanting to do without either
So you've become, like,
This addiction
But I can give you up
Any time I want
Yeah –
Any time I want
Butterfly
Her father used to call her
"Leptir"
Which is Serbian for
Butterfly
Because she used to chase after the Monarchs
Flapping her chubby little girl arms
In an effort to fly just like them.
Now her thin hands flutter like
Butterflies
Working quickly
Over her project
While there is still
Light of day.
Critiques and Croissants
We sit in the coffee shop
where he slowly butters his croissant
as he speaks emotionlessly
about how sick he is of poetry
I clasp my red parcel of works
to my chest
holding back disappointment
and the urge to tell him that fourth latte
is not good for him
He bemoans his very successful career
telling me all the tragedies that will befall
each of us in life
sorrow is no respecter of persons, apparently
I hang onto every word
although I sadden more
with each new revelation he has to offer
until he reaches out a hand
fingers shiny with butter
"Let me see them, Little One"
He takes the red parcel from me,
carefully and thoughtfully reading each poem
with the patience he put into buttering his croissant
"Is good," he concludes,
"But never say what can be implied".
Quickly, he slashes out mistakes
with his ever present nubby pencil
He does in seconds what I could not do in three nights
He leaves his mark on my poetry,
More visible than that of the oily fingerprints left behind
With his act of kindness
Even though he is sick of poetry.
He makes his mark on my poetry
As visibly as the oily fingerprints he has left behind
He smiles sadness
But leaves gladness in my heart
With his act of kindness
Even though he is sick of poetry
How To Not Write A Poem
See how many chocolates you can eat
Without biting into a single one
11 miniatures
Gag on a sugar high
See how white the faded denim fringe of your cut-off shorts
Looks against your tanned thigh
Turn your arms this way and that,
Compare them against the aforementioned thigh
See which is darker
(it's the thigh, it's always the thigh)
See if you can make water bead up on your forearm
Count the vitamins left in your bottle sitting on your desk
Play with toe ring
Tap a tune on your keyboard
See how it comes out looking like
3489ut9 foesdvx790eiritr9u043903
Deep condition your hair
Polish your nails
Take up crocheting
Happily pick up ringing phone only to find
Irate editor at other end
Looking to pick fight
Yes, you understand the meaning of deadline
No, you don't need to look it up
Yes, you will quit procrastinating
Immediately become brilliant
Write something witty and dazzling
Sparkle on paper
All the while vowing not to go near the candy section
Of the department store again.
New York Cocktail Party
In a sea of little black numbers
And perfectly coiffed bobs
I am the
Only one
Wearing red silk
And long, misbehaving curls.
In panic, I say to you,
"I am the only one not in black!"
You smile, lean forward,
Kiss my neck
And wickedly whisper,
"I know!"
Lazy Afternoon
You say,
There is no better way
To spend a Saturday afternoon,
Than having your back rubbed
By artist's hands.
As I massage and knead
Your already limber muscles,
I notice streaks of raw umber
And cadmium red paint
On my busy fingers,
And wonder
If you are grateful,
I was not making pottery
Instead.
