blue moon —
I wonder where my children
are tonight?

last day of the year —
a box of munchkins
in an empty conference room

Christmas Eve —
the empty nursing home
parking lot

bitter cold —
even the Christmas lights
seem to shiver

dream sequence - Part 10

the morning you drowned
you went out of your way
to show me your new tattoo
watching closely for my response.
I swallowed, sighed,
and managed a vaguely sarcastic “nice.”

longest night —
the echo
of my sigh

dream sequence - part 9

It was her all right.
Not that she was trying to hide —
or to be conspicuous —
but there could be no mistake.
She tried, with questionable success,
to melt into the crowd,
but the music drew her out.
the tender joyful melancholy
called out to her,
and she closed her eyes,
flying back into his arms
until the last chord
of every sad, sad song
and the promise
of that one last night
that never was.

December rain

December rain —
a phone call
from my son

December rain —
a pile of
torn lottery tickets

December rain —
the dog sniffs
a plastic bag

December rain —
a deer tail
and then nothing

December rain —
enough junk mail
to start a fire