Objects In Mirror
Are Closer Than They Appear

In the back seat
of our family car,
we are rolling up the windows
and complaining to dad
about the odor
coming from the cornfield
we are passing.

The farmer,
riding on his dusty John Deer,
is taking in the deepest
of breaths
sucking it all in
until he is tasting
the scent
of money
growing deep into
his fading pockets.

He can afford to smile
and wave at us
as we pinch our noses
and drive away.

Flatlined

There is a lifelong
debilitating disease
that artists suffer
causing them to abruptly wake
from a sound sleep
as if from an electric shock
with their shifting eyes thinking
resting on nothing in the blackness
until they frantically
reach for the notepad
and pre-sharpened pencil
on the nightstand.

The ability to write
without seeing the line,
a compelling genetic defect,
is causing them to break
from the rest of night
to rise with their thoughts
before the dawn’s activity
can flood them away.

Their lovers have come
to follow in their wake
turning off curling irons
and moving pots off the stove
where interruptions
have carried them away
drowned in thought.

Burnt Sienna

When she was small
and picked up her crayons
the 64 box
held all the colors
she needed.

And my Crayola girl
colored in magenta
vibrant and lively
bubbling with the laughter
that painted her mood.

And gray was bypassed then
for sepia and raw umber
when forceful scribbling
was needed.

So there is no surprise now
when her nights
are marked in black and white
with no way to erase
the mistakes of the day.

If she had been playing
with an Etch-a-sketch,
she might have learned
to turn her troubles over
and shake them away.