Of things we sometimes imagine

the box on the shelf
with the black-penned Possibility
has a lid that won’t close
yesterday’s thinkings
and tomorrow’s

and never lie flat.

in it is the house i’d build
and fill with his favourite things.

he’d laugh,
for he hasn’t seen the butter-flour apron
beneath the ink of my liberal jeans,

but there I’ll be;
a smile in his kitchen
and one for when he’d wake,

between my work with words
and the song of sunrise
sweeping outside the front door.

buddy talk

I’ve been your friend since you puked up on me in grade school, I can tell you this. You buddy, make roadkill look attractive.

-Sheesh, I know i’m not the best looking guy around…

Well, thank God you don’t harbour any of those delusions.

-But she only wants to marry me because of the money.

A woman’s gotta love you for something. Be grateful.