Poetry

Our son will be my prophesy, my sign, my wonder.

My grandfather at 90 chews my mom's roast chicken and banana bread, his dentures slipping loose.

Be red desert blush. Be peacock plume glanced by high-noon sun.

In the vein-code of a leaf, hear it in the bleating of the neighbor's round-horn sheep.

It brings me joy to report that to scarecrows we all look the same ...

In an emergency room, I sat beside a man with a pencil in his eye ...

Yet, how is it we never find their slim bodies after they die?

We can't stop the poplars from changing color and dropping their leaves.

May bad ideas lack consequence, like use-by dates on bottled water ...