Charlie Brown

Schultz must have
had it
right.

Sunday afternoon
tired, torn-up,
terrible
digesting a bag of
greasy chips
rumbling in the land
of lunch
and you hid under my
chair
let me brave the
vacuum
until I scooped you up
and kissed
and canoodled
eyes
filled teacups
steeped in the water of
happiness.

Schultz must have
had it
right.

Puppies make everything
infinitely
better.

Lock Box

If you would be so
kind
as to carve my heart
that beating roobios
muscle
out of this 28-yeared
chest
and bury it away
behind copper and
steal
key lost in the bottle
no one will read
merlot
to some Tom Hanks
wannabe
washed up in the Isle
of shrunken heads
and yes they eat the
dead
in Papa's New Guinea
I'd greatly and dare I say
unabashedly appreciate it.

Because I've no use of the
sound
it makes
when I'm trying to sleep
no use of the
push
it has
when I'm trying to breath
no use of the ache it
feels
when I'm trying to see
the reality
of who we
1-2-3
human I'll race you
to another man's
misery
pretend to be.

It's better left to
cannibals and
movie stars.

Make-Believe

For an hour or two
that you know
who
is more than
Henry's Blend
or Blended Chai
that she is not
limited
to Orange Coffee Cake
and Toasted Bagels
that you can hear
the sound of her
voice
behind the timers
and oven digs
that she is in fact a
person
more than the black apron
or lobby sweeps.

Yes, friends, let's
make-believe
for an hour or two
that you know
who
is

you know who.