write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during October 2011

I’m the one, always,
relegated to the dungeon.
The ugly one who can’t be loved.

She shines like glinty metal,
hard and quick, and he loved her
before me, and still does at times.

I’m like wood and burnished leaves;
like the end of season’s burst of life
before expiring, the cool breath you can see.

His words sink in; his blue eyes gaze.
We’re nose to nose and foreheads. We always
touch and it feels sometimes safe.

I will make it difficult, I think. It’s the time
and there is another large she looming, the great hovercraft
of divorce, long shadows of past history.

He loves me, loved her, loves me, loved her, loves me,
love her….loves me, loved her…..
I am a calm breeze, a cup of cool water, a broken heart for you.

I will be this, I will step in the middle of tornadoes
and wonder why they hit me. I will be brave in the face of
someone else’s absurdist play and likely forget mine.

Gold, then books, then God,
in that order. Change it up
biweekly, reverse

the pattern, undo
the rhythm and upset the
tides. March in and say

you didn’t mean it;
‘I would never say that, at
least on a Thursday.

Only a full moon
would make me say that, and that
moon was new.’ Bring in

the reinforcements.
Know it will all be okay,
even if New York

floods. We’ll have kayaks
and gortex, and swim to the
Utah shore. Books next.