Poetry

Not a quart of iced tea,chilly beads of sweat sliding down the sides of the glass pitcherand pooling on the green formica.They drink a toast to the sun and the…

I imagine you tiny—two Q-tips long—blonde hair shiny,eyes bright as silver,mouth open in delight,full of giggles and diamonds.You tumble atop cotton ball clouds,bound through golden mansion rooms,sway to jazzy harp…

First thing this mornin'—before I open my eyes—I smile.Metal scrapin' on metal I swear.It's mama fryin' eggs and baconin that ole thick black pan,lookin' over Jordan.Swing low, I sayThen I…

You visit sporadically, usually on Tuesday (you always liked the song). Outside the wooden door, you pose like a child next to a crayoned wall. Three quick raps at the…