Saturday, July 30, 2022

Eulogy for Forgotten Times

The driven commutes without mentionable
weather or changed radio stations.
A day spent entirely alone 
at home, missing no one.
A familiar walk by the river
lost in thought.
The day you left work 
as though shortly after arriving.
Let’s honor those that’ve carried 
us here with no expectations.
Between pain’s insistence on permanence
and joy’s inspired impressions, we’ve
forgotten times without difficulty.
May times uneventful
return to anonymity.
Our tireless comfort
and overlooked reprieve.

Thursday, July 28, 2022

Everyone Needs a Mimi

She hasn’t shrunk. She’s always been.

In high hair and pajamas, she’ll say,

“Want a pickle, ice cream, popcorn?”

She’s not comfortable until you are.

“How’s work? Do you like it?”

If you don’t, you shouldn’t, and she

doesn’t either. If you do, “Oh good.”

Her stool helps her feet touch

the floor. Her gestures rattle her

bracelets over her arm chair.

And if you’re upset, “Talk to Mimi.” 

Thursday, July 21, 2022

Another Day

You stand up and shuffle in pajama 
pants (awaking Tater) into the kitchen.
“How did dinner go with Evan?”
“Fine. Talked about the usual stuff.”
Tater arches upward and yawns 
on the back of the couch, and then 
walks down my chest and lap.

Saturday, July 16, 2022

Michael Weeks 2

The day after you died 
your house and yard
were full of everyone 
we knew. I fell apart
when exiting the car,
and went around the house
for privacy. I found your 
dad crouched and allowing
a kitten to play with his hand.
He said Hi and I did too.
Then we both continued to cry.

Friday, July 15, 2022

The spirit of the mentally ill

The spirit of the mentally ill
wants one conversation
to confirm she exists.
She catches herself
on the corners of reality enough
to suspect it:
a déjà vu in an overcoat
on a summer beach,
the synchrony of a cigarette light
with lamps on streets,
or neck hairs on end
when eyes lock with a friend—
            the pith of all hope
            (recognizing her expression
            in a mirroring face)
            passes understanding.
She feels as if something’s misplaced.

Saturday, June 18, 2022

Tribeca's Kitchen

Stop animation photos capture
a diner table overhead.
Two coffee cups empty and fill
and empty and appear here
and there around disappearing
chocolate chip pancakes
and a two-egg breakfast, until
the cups stand empty alone together.

Tuesday, March 1, 2022

Michael Weeks

I was sixteen when you died.
When I was seventeen, Stacey Brice 
handed me a paper doll skeleton
that you had cut and buried within 
your Geometry book. Now I’m forty one,
and those paper bones are in this poem, 
atop my shelf, and older than you ever were.

Wednesday, September 1, 2021


The gray sky hides the sun. 
I see others’ backs walking toward the train. 
Quiet footsteps on wet cement. 
A garbage truck’s brakes hiss behind me. 

Tuesday, August 24, 2021

Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Practicing Heartbreak

Years teach one to mend 
one’s chest after each 
deep unrest. Everyone
learns the best seat 

is the corner seat. 
With your back to the wall 
you can stand tall 
after the party ceases. 

I don’t know. My heart 
has creases from excessive 
scar healing. I’m far 
from having a proper perspective. 

A broken bone is stronger 
after becoming unbroken. 
A broken heart is bolder 
if one can be forgiven. 

Friday, June 18, 2021

Thursday, June 10, 2021

Aged 50

In ten years I 
hope to clearly 
write poems 
without punctuation
without wasted words

with nothing but heart