The silence of eyes
drives
me to look over
Head and street
lights
bury your mouth
in a padded
disguise
I'm quiet
while inside
a maelstrom
of emotion--
anger
fear
spite--
is tumbling
and turning
disturbing
what's left of the
deep-set
respect
shirking the desire
that would rise
at the touch
of your thumb
and the lapsing of
love
that simply won't serve
to pacify
when I'm tired
of this late,
soggy night

Joe Hardy grouchily tumbled out of bed, slamming his hand down on his screeching alarm clock to shut it up.

It had been a rather bad week for him; for one thing, his parents and aunt Gertrude were away for the week, leaving him and Frank to do all the cooking.
And Frank was a terrible cook. Joe wasn’t sure how much longer he could survive on his brother’s cooking.

For another, when Joe had looked in the mirror, his beautiful blond hair had turned white. Not to mention, he was turning eighty-nine tomorrow, which meant he was getting old.
Just like Frank.

1. Mundane

the bleachy grit of
Comet!
scruffs away at the
blood-red chili stain in my
father’s kitchen sink;

the washcloth is oozing and
I can’t breathe through
my nose—I think I’m
allergic to bleach—my skin
is turning splotchy red and
tingles every time I move

and no matter how hard I scrub
this stupid stain isn’t coming out.

2. Changes

I.
all of the red brick neighborhoods
I once loved
now seem empty
absent
withdrawn

"So that's what you are,"

He whispered in awe.

"Yes, that is what I am; no more, no less. So take me as I am, or leave me. All I ask is that you decide quickly, and spare me the pain of waiting."

Her soft voice came in halts, strangely foreign to her normally smooth tones. It barely sounded above the pouring rain.

He watched the water drip through her eyelashes and slowly roll down the bridge of her nose while he prepared his answer.

***

The chick looks up with youth blurred eyes,
Peering into bright blue nothingness,
A feather coated Genesis.
The sky is blue and trees sway,
A streak of black on rustled breeze,
The chick looks as he perches in the trees.
The crow, a prince of the wind,
Darkest ebony feathers glinting in the sun,
The blue sky framing his midnight pigmentation.
Chick chirps feebly with excited song,
Flapping downy unformed wings,
Chest puffed proudly his creaking voice rings.
He flaps his feathers with mania on his mind,

The last several months have been full of adventure, heartache, joy, and learning to lean on the father as a few of my friends and I have spent time studying and living overseas together. Here are a few of my thoughts as our time drew to a close.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Adolescence

Mrs. Spinnaker fishes into her coin purse and roots around with heavy, arthritic fingers. The bag is made from a fabric almost identical to the pattern on the rug—amber florals. The curtains are artfully positioned on either side of the windows, sticky with dust, and the layers of translucent dressings beneath act as a barrier to light.

“How much did you say again?” She asks, though it’s been less than fifteen seconds.

“Thirty-five cents, m’am,” I reply primly. I fold my hands in my lap and cross my ankles, like Mama taught me.

I've heard love songs old and new
Some lines apply to me and you
Only partly relatable
Love stories very beautiful
Sometimes I wish that I could find
A song that speaks what's on my mind
He's still writing our love song, Love
He is still writing our love song