There are Sundays, when late afternoon
I make a review of how the past week’s time
Has disappeared, even today with
The extra hour gifted from daylight saving’s time
And no groceries have been purchased
Except milk, eggs, cinnamon, garlic
Which were needed for dishes that
Were required for respectful admittance
Into a potluck or a school function
I remark to myself in a form of self acceptance
That I am not inspired to cook anything
On this too gorgeous of a day to do much but
Admire the leaves which normal poets
Would observe eloquently in portrayals of death and rebirth
And how their cascading spirals into Mother Earth’s
Waiting palms is proof their existence passing downward
Is not simply a suicidal drop that is forgotten, but
Will be nourishment for her splendor in spring
But I, oddly, only think there is nothing
I want to prepare for my family to eat
Except maybe grilled cheese whose golden crunch
Will comfort me with its simplicity as dipping it into
Possibly tomato soup whose steam will warm my cheeks
In perfect enjoyment that nothing of note was accomplished
With the extra hour that will be owed to spring

The two of us, she, blonde and blue
I, brown on brown, a substantial overbite
Little girls smiling from the tree limbs
Always happy to be together, despite differences
Her parents adored her, me I was invisible
In a home with boys and too many
Other things to be worrying about
Always something to do
She would ask outside or in
With a shrug of shoulders from me
The decision was hers
Imaginations taking a heap of autumn leaves
Designing a house of invisible walls
Doorways respected with each new
Idea for what the crunchy medium
Could provide us as substitutions
Pillows, tables, and bed outlines
Outside home in the neighbor’s backyard,
Taken for granted acreage, squatters
This first relationship based on choice
Sometimes needing to feel wanted
Accepted, enjoyed; not just an obligation
She, filling my wish for a mother or sister who cared
Simultaneously remaining even when the walls
Of our house disappeared with the wind

There, look closely behind, the smile
Tightly held at the corners, the mouth
Where a gleeful self hug sits, the repose
Keeping watch to benefit only, the struggle
Anticipation shadowing patience, the turmoil
Continues undiscovered in misery, the companion
Silent membership to undisclosed power, the secret
Desiring a place of acceptance too improbable, the damage
Born of intention then carefully nurtured, the deceit
Flowing effortlessly a hypnotized daze, the confusion
Always unaware of truth’s clarity to rescue, the innocent
Emboldened by experience with possibility, the hope
Challenging guile always moving there, beneath, the surface

hours we spent entertained with 52
dealing hands of five, seven, eight
when it was war the entire deck split
each of us in equal measure, we thought
poker for pennies, gin rummy, fish
solitary played alone sometimes
necessary relief or a desperate attempt
for something to do until someone
dropped onto the floor pointing out
the 5 could go on the 6 or the queen
of hearts on the king of spades as
an opposites attract ironic situation
the second born had long fingers
that shuffled the decks through
my childhood, his tongue pressed
against his lip; deep concentrated effort
dealership in the game of his choice
he called it bloody knuckles, the number
of cards remaining in your hand testified
to your length of punishment as the cards
were banged against the losers knuckles
he would almost always disseminate
the tortuous blows after asking
are you sure you can take it,
my head assuring him with a committed yes,
my hand in a requisite fist
the cards landing stingingly
those five loved that game with me
i always wonder over my losing so often
why did i keep playing at a game
where winning alluded me, my blood
the testimony i could be one of them
a game whose rules i failed to remember