Poems

The Refrigerator InventoryEight-fifteen on a weekend. The door hangs open.The tour begins. What do I have, what can I make—with the available and the hunger of the steak,this is the question a manwho hasn’t eaten since the pizza at midnight asksof the appliance humming its cold liturgy. The brisket waits, leftover from the midweek fire.Eggs […]

The Phantom’s Lair In the old abandoned theatre, where silence reigns and shadows seethe,A mind begins to twist and turn, haunted by phantoms that yearn.Curtains flutter with ghostly grace, whispers echo in the space,A heart pounds in the chest of dread,fearing the phantoms of the dead.Eyes peer from behind the drapes, watching as reality escapes,Mirrors

The Prisoner of Principle He did five years because he would not give up the other men,He sat there in the hearing room and said it once and then,He repeated it again with different words but same address,That he was not the kind who talks to relieve the press. The prisoner of principle in the

The Puppet with No Strings I walked off the show when they cut my wires,lit a match on the curtain and danced through the fires.They said, “You need control,” I said, “I need a drink,”now I’m tied to nothing but the edge and the brink. No strings, no script, no wooden regret,just a smirk carved

The Ordinary WeeknightNo occasion and no reason and no candles and no songJust the kitchen and the cooking and the radio alongYou at the counter cutting something greenMe with the dish towel in the most ordinary sceneI’ve ever been part of and the most important one The love that lives in the nothing-special under the

The Nurse Who Smiled Too Wide She walks without a sound, heels like whispers on tile,and her clipboard’s always full, but her face wears that smile.Too wide for warmth, too stiff for grace,like it’s hiding something just behind her face. She speaks in rhymes she swears are facts,wears her name tag pinned to a stitched-up

The Nurse With the Smile Is Missing She used to glide like whispers on tile,clipboard in hand, never needing a sword.Lipstick red like a trigger pulled slow,and a grin like she knew what you’d never show. She’d tap your chart like a metronome,say, “Progress, darling,” in that polished tone.And when she smiled, it felt too

The Orderlies Are Watching Me They follow me quiet, they follow me loud,in the wallpaper, in the crowd.One in the ceiling, one in my bed,the one in the mirror just nods his head. They adjust my meds when I try to sleep,then count my blinks and laugh too deep.They wink in sync with the hallway

The Needle Girl She’s the girl who talks to needles slow,and every vein is a secret she’ll know.So if you see her smile too wide–you’re already inside. She keeps your breath in tiny jars,labels them with dates and scars.And when you’re gone, she doesn’t cry–she just files your veins and lets you die. Her closet’s

The Nightshirt Left OnYou left the nightshirt on—thin cotton holding secretswhere my fingers want their home.A cheap room breathes warm dust and old perfume,and still you make it feel like Rome.Your mouth gives me a crooked vow,then steals it back,then dares me not to roam. I read the curve of you through fabric,reading bruised desire