I saw her today, her eyes like raisins
and let her delving verbal tongs
lift and measure my mad nest for awhile.
My voice rolled out like a bad cartoon,
not matching my lemonade rimmed lips
Afterward, I structure a
public countenance again
on the breezeway outside,
but there is no breeze.
Social standards seem to
negate singular worth.
At home, the kolanchoe looks
so muscular and pretty.
Its green scalloped fleshy leaves present
the orange splendor of it’s tiny blooms,
all pelvised in terra cotta.
And how the sun encouraged,
it’s wet soil to
push up weedy new shoots next to it,
that spoke to me.