Last Days

They are penultimate,
next to last
an almost end.

Each day is a cliff hanger...

a script whose final act

never comes.

It seems strange to cling to the next

and beg for the last,

a thanksgiving

quickly folded into an envelope marked

"past due".

How is it that the sun

rises with hope

and sets with disappointment

that another day will dawn?

He thinks me ungrateful

unable to wrap his arms

around the girth of this juxtaposition,

but it's really quite elementary.

The day is so beautiful

but how much more so

eternity.

Window Shop

I’m not much for delicate
but it was dually delicate and hard
like biker wear made of lace
and perhaps it was just these oppositions
that drew my face to the window

I pressed my nose
in oily grease between the sweaty imprints
of my palms
and left my name scrawled
in condensation across the bodice of a dress
I wished to wear

I returned day after day after day
pressing ever closer to the glass
concerned the garment
would find purchase on another frame
and my ruminations became plots to retain
and exercises in endurance

I had no coin, nothing to barter
and layaway seemed the best option
someday to own
someday to pay
but the shoulders already wore dust
loudly stating their need
not for eyes, but
for arms