Wake

A smudge of fog hovering above quiet houses at dusk,
ghost words smeared on a chalkboard,
empty business suits still with mothballs,
dust on a blind television,
cracked streets of a dying steel town,
the color of thirty years of poorly cooked meat.

Eyes that have had their blue worn away;
two losing lottery tickets.

 

shock and awe

there are insidious forces at work
in the crisper drawer
of my refrigerator.

 

dreams

the boy saw the shiny bicycle
and saved all his change
for the chance to buy

a pair of bolt cutters.