Paint by Numbers

I'll paint you a cottage
along fields of paper windmills,
if you help me with my shoes.

Show Me

I point,

he stares.

He says the sky reminds him

of flying saucers,

like the ones at ice cream socials.

Says he worries about being adopted.

He means abducted

But I understand.

I point,

he stares.

He says the water tower

must be where giants bathe.

Says they’re the reason we have floods.

I point,

he stares.

He says the woods are where bad kids go.

Says they must have forgotten to

wash up before supper.

He’s young.

I point,

he stares.

He says the fireworks look

like mothers’ flower dress.

Says she’s dancing in the sky.

He wishes he could join,

but understands.

The Sidewalk

Sidewalks are meant for walking,

or so I thought bagged leaves were for opening

treasures fit for kings

hidden beneath cement roads

where voices never carry out through

stones skipped by boys with bruised shins running passed

lemonade stands when life was worth a quarter, where

men had once been pebbled by the good of a glass while

watching ships take flight on streets in London,

shuttering over infiltrated castles,

speaking to whales waving goodbye

to suits that were a little too snug around

the waist, wondering how the stampede approached so quickly,

when all we had to do was lay down our ears

and listen to the sidewalk speak.

Oak

In time I will entrust the babble of birds

as my tea stained mug mimics

trees aligned along the crest of lake water

in the late of October. Within this dumpy cabin

barricaded by firewood, my sleeve captures

condensation from a weaken sun, as I fiddle

with a string, tethered at the seams of a long

lost button, wooden with a pickled oak-like finish.

Littered across this kitchen floor is the apple tart

paint that stuck to our bare feet, scattered like the squirrel,

threatened during his feast.

This evening my breath howls as the last surge of

bluebonnet and all purpose flour

escapes from cushions toned by legs crossed,

then uncrossed. I raise my hands to curse the wind,

allowing the blue rimmed crown to wilt

as these birds join in song, offering me one night to sleep

among their choir.

Telescope

He asks to join in the nudging of knuckles beneath palms,

not in prayer but in questioning the loyalties of a man. She

shares her regret, a lingering motion behind eyelids,

not crying but holding answers to reasons why she’s ever

devoted to the road. She pulls at his shirt collar,

pressing the warmth of her breathe against the steel of his neck,

“this is what I’ve needed.” He notices her wrists, scented

as the purity of dew along wooded trails, is unfamiliar and cold.

He beckons for a blanket, dismissing her pawed gestures to scrape

his inabilities to separate his morals from fantasies. She recalls her hands

upon his chest, brushing them now across her brow

wondering how ones company can lead to such tastelessness.

He runs a finger along a telescope , corroded and peering,

millions of miles away from his duty amongst men,

searching for ways to please her through the obscurity of space.

A Little More (Cont.)

Lying in your garden
with sun kissed toes,
we ignore your fathers
knuckle-to-glass talk
that neighbors can see us
tucked behind orange snapdragons
in a splashed white barrel mounted
to hide fingers that flutter
from time to time,
enjoying the grass pressed
against our skin,
not knowing we’d scratch
till the sun decided
we were ready for more.
We shall grow
a fortress of sequoias and eliminate
walls in which chemicals speak,
spending time with the metallic sheen of wings
yet clipped, refusing to move
our feet till the snow melts beneath them.
Escaping through fields of yellow rye,

grains part at the sight of our tempered

stagger, reciting hymns to grasshopper eggs

resting on stems once coated in pollen,

waiting to find if this harvest

is stable enough,

to be considered a home.

Industrial Relationships

She speaks through screen doors,
heart set on men sold at garage sales
attentive to pull possessions away from
fiberglass conversations of inflated
divorce rates that leave her mouth dry
against the lips of a machine.

Small talk, no talk
waffle tongue placed between eyelids
resting on telephone wires with a jukebox
selection of sexual correlations beside
copper letters engulfed in mass market imperfections,
unprocessed by taste buds diluted amid
black flies caramelized by
fluorescent lights.

Papier-mâché opinions parade
critical accusations of irregular
involvements between the canary and crow,
in attempts to breed mixtures of sorrow
upon illicit hips ruffling shirt collars,
engaged in hands-on education.