SHAWL wrapped tightly against the wind as I
WRITE my apology for yesterday’s words
ALONG the river not far from here where the
DEMON on my shoulder won the argument.

Portrait of a Bygone Harbor

STEAM ships barrel in and out,
SALTY air, crying gulls matching the capitalist energy.
SLOOP more leisurely embarks.
TRUSS the rigging, sea’s bouncing today.

(I have no idea if “truss the rigging” makes any nautical sense)

Spoiled Dinner

FILET mignon for my birthday sits
DULLY on my plate, uneaten as an
IRATE customer nearby rages about service and
NOSEY spectators pull out their phones to record.

(Forgot to post when I wrote this a number of days ago.)


SCAREs me how, looking back at it, that
RIGHT from the start, with our without preparedness, this
IRATE baby is my absolute responsibility, flying in the
ORBIT of my every thought and action.


GAUNT, arthritic man speaking in the
SLANG of his youth can’t
ROUSE himself beyond nostalgia,
UNITEd in shared slavery to time, unthinkable.

The Curse

AMAZEment spread across his face.
BINGO! he said to himself, the
MUMMY perfectly preserved and … that’s
WEIRD, did its finger just twitch?


BRIDE delighted to now have a
TILDE in her new last name.
LOWER expectations once never imagined she’d
REVEL every time she hears “Mrs. Nuñez.”