poetry

fleeing on foot

Photo by Helen H. Richardson, The Denver Post

fleeing on foot

what still haunts Grace
is the families fleeing on foot
holding hands

the little children with their flimsy school backpacks
meant for holding little more than a snack
now carrying all that they might come out with

and more than that –
driving past them without stopping –
having no room, no seats

being one more in the long line of cars
passing up those without

poetry

unearned credit

unearned credit

having our house appraised
for the lender
for the cash-out refi
for the long-planned cabin
for wildness

there is the unspoken uncomfortable knowledge
that according to the rules of economics
and the inverse relationship between supply and demand
and the current state of things
all indications are that I will personally benefit
financially though certainly not psychologically
from enormous loss

another privilege I am uncertain
how to go about offsetting

another roll of the dice
with profound implications
I can take no credit for

poetry

when the WiFi barely works

when the WiFi barely works

0s and 1s drip
like fat orbs of honey
no, molasses –
black-brown and glossy
slowly teasing me with
the taste of warm gingerbread

I’m like those
inconsistently rewarded lab rats –
they never give up –
and I click & reload over and over
maybe this time
the bits will go down smoothly
my desires will sail through
the twisted pipe of fiber/cable
and the rental car will
magically be reserved