Eye witness report

Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying "She smelled like last weeks garbage."

The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old.  Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler's dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn't recognize much else.

Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.

Lifting Weights

What doesn't kill us now, will eventually.

Birthday cards and Mother's Day cards

feel ten pounds heavier when she's sick,

twenty when she's no longer around to keep them.

Her signature stamped on each one,

blares like neon gas

when her hands no longer sign them.

Prying open each door will leave us

with dead arms and blind eyes.

Hey you, move.

Get out of my way. In fact, you should get out my way quick. I really can't stand you.

I can't stand your blue eyes, blue as the water in the pool you lifeguard every day. I especially can't stand the shape of your legs, but I'd hate them even if you let yourself go. So don't.

I want you to quit. I want you to leave without giving your notice. You're possibly the worst person I've ever worked with. But if you do quit, I'm afraid I'll have to make you quit your next job so our boss could hire you back. I'd miss you.

Seriously though, move. I've have work to do.

Sunday Best

In Italy, in San Lorezno,

I found three options for Sunday devotion.

__________________

Some went to Sancto Laurentio

in their Sunday finest,

entering the wine colored doors

in orderly fashion

to quietly take their wafers and wine sips.

___________________

Others went to Bar Martins,

dressed to meet their finest friends.

They slipped under the roof

with laughter on their faces

and songs on their chests,

to drink anything and throw darts.

__________________

I sat on a bench near the fountain,

a scarf around my neck,

a Bible and notebook on my lap,

listening to living water and chewing words.

The Reluctant I

Everyone loves a good coffee shop. Finding a good one might be more of a problem. There's Starbucks, who a loyal Dutch Bros fan wouldn't be caught dead in. There's Dutch Bros, who the typical Starbucks follower fails to know the existence of. Then, there's the local coffee shops, the holes in the walls, the stand alones, and the caffinated pubs. Those are the best to go. The Bean is my usual haunt.

A different world sits inside, an alternate stage with unusual characters. Not a single hero shows up here. Every patron has a skeleton in their car, some with cat bones, others with an ex-friend's remains. Others have their hopes and dreams grounded up into pale powder, others have burned their bone bridges into ash and keep them in jars. Sitting on a stool means more than sitting down. It means leaving your weight and saying to yourself "I belong." Most likely the scenery will believe you.

The coffee? It's magic. Each puff of steam is made of dying clouds and the sugar comes from stardust. When the barista hands the cup to the guy at the other end of the counter, its like she's giving him a kiss. The kiss isn't a casual Nice-To-See-You, it's a fierce You-Belong-To-Me kiss. She lets go of the cup fast, so only a regular will recognize the spark. In fact, the barista does it to every customer, as long as they're male. Girls get a knowing I-See-That-Once-Over-You-Gave-Him smile, but the barista refuses to compete with them. She saves her kisses for the hand-off. Guys are fair game after that.

The guy on the end? He comes in every other day, after his last writing class. His mustache twitches as he plops down on the stool, and a wry grin forms not on his lips, but in his eyes. After giving the barista a nod for his order, he flips open his journal, and writes. He etches careful letters across the page and he frowns deliberately every time. Most guys order a deep, black, coffee, but he only orders a white-hot chocolate. It sits idle, longing on the counter for his touch, but he ignores it for at least three pages. Then he takes a sip and the room sighs with relief, though it knows he'll always come around eventually.

He never turns to look across the counter. The journal is his lover, his attention, his aim, his all.

Pandora's Box

Every memory of the hospital

I locked inside,

with the lost cds,

the forgotten Christmas,

and the Easter she slept through.

_______________

Each 21 days Death pulls out a key

and unchains the chest.

He allows three tears

to escape. The key slips

into his hollow cape.

______________

In the cavity of his chest

he holds our ache,

But he also holds our cure.

Grave Diggers

Each of the four buttons beeped as he punched in his code. The machine spit out a receipt with a squeak. It read Employee #5, clocked in 5:00 p.m. He stuffed the receipt in his apron, and adjusted his blue baseball cap as he headed to the sink. Squeezing some soap onto his hands he scrubbed for ten seconds, and then washed for them for ten.  Within another half a minute he stood behind the fountain machines, clipboard in hand.

“Susie! You’re doing outside trashes.” “Carl! You have drains.” “Mike! You have windows.” “Louise, you have menu houses.” In a more mumbled voice, Bill glanced down and read. “And I have everything else.”

As the proud team-leader he was, Bill headed over to the drive-thru window, drawing the envy of all his fellow employees. He put on his headset with a flourish. Bill snapped to attention when he heard a faint beep, followed by the rumble of a customer’s engine. “Welcome to Burger Princess!”

“Uh yes. I’d like the Happy Cow Shake with a Fat-Cow Burger.

“Would you like some mad potato fries with that sir?”

“Uh…sure.”

 Bill grinned. Only one more suggested sale and he would break his personal record. He already left his fellow employees in the dust weeks ago. Soon enough that manager would notice him. Soon enough he’d have his promotion to manager-in-training. No one would laugh at him then. Deftly he punched in each piece of the order, then read it off. “One Happy Cow Shake, one Fat-Cow Burger, and one Mad Potato fry. Would you like to super-size that order?"

“Sure….” The customer paused.

Sweat trickled down Bill’s jaw. “Sir?”

The customer replied, “I think I forgot my wallet. Sorry. I’ll be back later.” He drove off.

Unfortunately, the customer also forgot to come back.

When Bill went on his break, he went to the lockers with his head hanging. He towed each foot to one of the empty folding chairs, and collapsed in it. Bill ignored the looks of the other employee on break. Pulling off his baseball cap, he stared at the logo. Could Bill possibly move on? Would he have to quit this lousy job and get one that actually paid his rent? What would his father think? The very father who owned the franchise wouldn’t necessarily get angry over this…but he would be severely disappointed.

I suck at building bridges, but I'm oh so good at burning them

Years ago we could walk across the planks together.

Now rotten wood threatens to send me falling below.

Perhaps I lost you first,

several steps back,

and it's your voice I hear

calling me from below.

I'd reach out,

reach down,

reach up, even,

if I knew how.

It's nothing personal.

Family Consciousness

“Any idea why we’re having this dinner?” Tom complained as he sat down. The plastic red-checkered table cloth beamed up at him. He glanced back at it with disgust.

“No. Not even sure why we had to have it here of all places.” Susan sighed tiredly fiddling with her menu. Smokin’ Hogs Diner filled the top half of the menu cover in gaudy patriotic colors. None of the menu items had low fat or reduced cholesterol. She couldn’t even tell if they were organic.

"They’re even fifteen minutes late.” Tom glanced at his watch, holding the menu at arm’s length. His cuff-linked sleeves peeked out from the satin suit coat. He took a moment to adjust the folds of his collar.

“You look over-dressed.” She said with a snicker.

“What about you? The bus boy seems interested in that necklace of yours.”

“He’s probably just staring at my chest.” Susan rolled her eyes. Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling when she heard a conversation drawing closer behind her.

“Oh look honey! There they are!” A sweet, melancholy voice chimed. Flowery sleeves of a blouse materialized into the candle light a moment later.

Both Tom and Susan fought the urge to sag in disappointment. “Hello mom.”

“What about me?” A lower voice came from the shadows.

“Hello dad.”

Their parents sat down and opened their menus, humming tunes discordant with one another. Each gave their orders to the waitress.

“I’ll have the shrimp—“ Their father began.

“You sure honey? The shrimp will give you—“ Their mother interrupted.

“Ahem! I’ll have the shrimp gumbo, with or without gas.”

Both Tom and Susan gave their orders without event. The waiter evaporated into the shadows, carrying the menus with him.

Their mother was the first to speak. “So…you’re probably wondering why we’re eating together again."

Her grown children nodded. She glanced at the man she married with somewhat sad eyes.

He spoke up next. “We’re getting a divorce.”

“Finally.”

But my visions are in verse

I opened my eyes to my dining room.

My laptop, painted in cherry, sat on a crisp tablecloth.

No trash had found the table yet.

_________

She stood at the crossroads of

the sunny kitchen,

the cloudy family room,

and the crimson dining room.

_____________

I backed away from my dead mother

who stared at me,

breathing with her eyes wide open.

_____________

"Oh honey."

Her arms drooped slightly

while halos found her chocolate curls,

clinging to her head.

____________

Slowly, as all people do in dreams,

I walked.

____________

Then I ran.

____________

I wrapped my arms around her,

and clung to her silk and pearl nightgown.

______________

Her arms  wrapped around me,

warm and dry for the first time

in five months.

___________

We wept,

and our smiles shook.

My life is lived in prose

I tossed and turned that night. Even jet lag failed to introduce me to my pillow. My bones, tissues, and skin shook under my quilt. Cold tears slipped down my cheeks and passed my chin where they dipped down my neck and pooled on my chest.

Never again haunted me. As I lay there I buried my head underneath the fabric, refusing to face the Mother's Day ahead.

I couldn't meet the way her skin sagged after her soul and spirit left her tattered bones, her infected tissues, her swollen fat, and her leaking skin. I couldn't forget the color of it: washed out green, tallow, ashen, and limp. I couldn't forget my father back home, alone with a cat who hated him.

My eyes closed to forget.

At Clockworks

I wondered where home was for them.

Did the tattoos come off when the sun came up?

Did they draw them on with body markers,

and wash them off with soap?

Did they live at home with mother,

or under the bridges like trolls?

Like the rest of us

they slipped and fell on their words,

and picked themselves back up again.

I could see the quaking in their eyes

that shone through

the fishnets,

the torn clothes,

the tattoos,

and the piercings.

I recognized the cry

in their voices as my own.

A Salem Resident's Reaction to Sunlight

The two of them stared directly overhead, with the backs of their heads tipped back. One had blonde hair that shined brilliantly as the wind tickled its ends. His friend had crew-cut hair as brown as the mud beneath their shoes.

"Whoa, what's that in the sky?" The blonde asked the other, his mouth stretching as if he planned to drink the light in.

"I can't see; it's burning my eyes!" The brunette winced, ducking his head as he blinked repeatedly.

"But, man, does it feel good on my skin." Stretching out his arms, closing the blonde his eyes with a sigh.

The brunette turned and looked at him. "Dude, are you high?"

"But look at all that blue stuff around it. It's so cool!" He didn't seem to notice.

"Hey...where's the rain?" A third voice chimed in as she trotted over to meet them. Her eyes rose in the same direction from beneath red bangs. "What's that yellow thing in the sky?"

Stage Fright

I step onto the platform,

and the nerves hit me

like a bucket of water.

The room once smaller than a classroom

now looms over me like a cavernous cathedral.

I don't recognize the voice that

spills back at me through the monitor

and the words I'm reading off the page

look more Greek than English.

I say thank yous more

than I ever have in my life.

When I finish I vibrate

like a cellphone,

but my body shakes not

when the message arrives,

but when my message has sent.