Personal History

Words cannot express
the emotion with which I feel.
Tirelessly considering,
the joy of childhood.
The love of parents
so happy for me.
A coffee sits.
Begging to be sipped. 
While I stare at
our old oak tree. 
The yard as square and cut
as dad kept it all those years.
Mom's aged cook book,
a family classic on the shelf.
Stares at me through dusty binding.
Years have passed.
Alone I tend to my history.
The coffee is getting cold.  

Us

Sunlit.
Your smile.
That time in the kitchen.
When the glass broke.
Scared. 
Hurt.
I thought you were.
You smiled.
Laughed embarrassed.
Momentarily tender.
My machismo broken.
But for a moment.
My heart you saw.
My love for you.
Laid bare.
Embraced.
Two hearts forever.
Linked as one.
Nothing as precious.
Special. 
Us.

Fingers: Prose Poetry

The buffet was enjoyable. So I heard. Finger foods mostly. Ornate, orange-lined dishes for overly dressed guests. Cheap plastic utensils were organized on oval platters. But nothing was used. Fingers for everything. Crackers, breaded sticks of cheese. Crudites for all the finger-licking onlookers to enjoy. A trumpet played in the background. Musical harmonies mingled with the soft din of small talk. The artist’s fingers played the keys as if he was born with them. The ornamental table piece blocked my view. There you stood, running your fingers through hairs. Bored. Full of consternation for an evening wasted. Oh how if you only knew my thoughts. One moment, together at that buffet, if our fingers could touch but over a pig in a blanket. The love, I’m sure, would fill our hearts eternally. The trumpet played on. Lost in but one moment over a literal, cheesy buffet. You were gone.