working home
one's office lair
over-posted hallways
scare

spare bedroom's walls

In days of old when knights were bold
and

Bout to write
or better yet type
from the top of my dome going stir crazy
with my kids still

You sat at one end of the couch, I on the other,
as we peered into that electronic, flat-screen

I hope I write a poem tonight
Of sad memories
Of cherished moments
Of lost love
Of obstinate

His silence was
golden
but she had recently won
the lottery
and
did not need
or
want
that

When I am old,
I shall paint with a spatula,
and a barbeque brush,
and I will use my curtains

You can be so Romantic

When you stop talking about

Sunsets and eternities,

Every fallen

As it turns out,

You have been on my mind for four months now

Until I realised, in all our

I want a love like that of
Isherwood and Bachardy
Not because one is great
And the other

I loved you, once.
With a ferocity that
vibrated.
But, the movers came
and I never saw you

Look up on the hill
A baby calf lies silent and still
Laying underneath the tree
Sleeping away as