How Brief, Yet How Full

How brief, yet how full that first encounter
between you in your prime and me in my 
secondhand life. Hello, treasure hunter,
would you like to dig through this box of mine?

You gave new perspective on retro plans,
games, and puzzles, walking me back ten years —
to the foothills of adulthood, Old Man
in the rearview, set to play pioneers.

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Sober Winter

Waiting on a slow line at dinner hour,
air hunger befalls me, symptomatic
of nothing less than a moral panic.
Life’s too short for gas station flowers
and boxed wine. But: How to be sober
in a winter darkened by pandemic? 
Strain the breath before it becomes tannic
and dry, lest it drive me to another

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Black Friday

On looking over my harvest field,
To see what crop my life might yield,
I was amazed to find its state,
For I had left it to its fate.

After seeing red almost all year,
Night’s darkness during day appeared,
And so a profit came to me,
There was fruit where fruit should be.

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Gathering Rose Petals

to be romantic

to steep in bath water

to float in a cupped hand

to read into

to press in a book and forget

to remember today more than other days

to remember what I like to do

to remember who I like to give rose petals to

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The Sky is Falling

When the Old Man fell,
it interrupted all scheduled programming,
including Britney’s tenth birthday party,
where I was one minute
feeling

to pin the tail on the donkey,
and the next listening
for the sound
of a pin
falling.

Falling
like ashes,
ashes from the sky
in Oregon.
Fifteen years later,
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