A Better Day

Sunday morning. A vague sense of myself, And a clear vision of you. You in the kitchen, I on the speakerphone. One image. One view. Your face, your private smile. One feeling. One longing. For that you I first saw. And...

(On stage, she is sitting crouched, lamenting, wailing and cursing Death who is standing quietly, about five feet in front of her, with its back to her.) If you are so focused on not seeing me What is this urge in me...

And so this poem ends
Like my pedantic poems
Unlike your fantastic ones

October already
I wish I could see you
So that you will see
That I am not this dramatic

Strip, strip strip strip Strip everything strip That look from the corner of your eye, strip That raising your eyebrow in a tease, strip Strip that microsecond look of longing at me, strip Strip that touching my...