Entitled

I have the right to....

You owe me....

It is never spoken, but alluded to...

in everything you do

in all your actions and reactions.

My spirit feels like a commodity

to be used

and enjoyed

for free.

Where did it begin?

Where does it stop?

You are not entitled to anything that has to do with me.

That Box

My customary cleaning ritual helped me to find that box again.

That box...the one that holds the images that I stored away and the feelings that I shelved along with the pictures.

I looked at the two photographed strangers as if a curious voyeur.

It was a time when they were two pristine, unspoiled souls, whose slates were smooth and unblemished and ready to bare all to each other in an amorous tango that required no rehearsal.

It was a day of sunshine, waves, seagulls, repose on the rocky jetties on an unlikely January day.

It was arms and legs and silent embraces, captured in a glossy shape with a white border.

The two merely images now--no longer one, but two and far away from that unlikely January day.

Fingerprints on the doorway

today in the frenzy of spring cleaning

I wiped off the fingerprints on the top of the door facing.

Those prints were yours
an imaginary lay-up as you went through the doorway of my room
it was a time when you were younger
you had to jump to touch the top
now all you have to do is raise your arm to touch it

now you are gone with a life of your own
leaving an empty space in my house
leaving an empty space in my life

all that is left
are those juvenile fingerprints
at the top of the door
and now those are gone too

so quickly
with one swipe of a cloth

PAIN

Pain is the fuel

for the wheels of my brain

that crank out phrases

that mete out phases

that teach the lessons

that partners the experiences

that creates empathy

that turns into sympathy

exploding the safety valve

saving my sanity

and preventing me from

self-destructing....

there's never a shortage of that

fuel.

The Game of Garbo

Glamour

Gleaming

The dark red lipstick

and the "far away stare"

Pretending I was a visitor to

a different time

Faded Flower-Child's Lament

Standing on Geary Street

all about the music

mad about Kafka and O'Neill

a nose too big and mouth too small

remember what the dormouse said--keep your head.

Across the Bridge Table

Every week when I was a sorority girl

We were required to play bridge with our "older" sisters

elite women married to elite men, perfectly coiffed and beaded,

perfect small talk, perfect lessons--we were perfectly "groomed"

to take our place at the tables of the country clubs, bridge clubs

and junior league chapters everywhere.

College life was merely a passenger-less plane in a "holding pattern"--

To learn those crucial things that would really get us somewhere--

like developing the perfect bridge game

choosing the right petit for server

not wearing white before Easter, nor after labor day

having your belt match your shoes

cultivating the right crystal collection to match your china
and the perfect mulch for your petunias....

they should have taught us the difference


between a hedge fund and t-notes


how to look the mechanic in the eye and say "Bullshit"


and mean it


how to pick the cheapest and best divorce attorney


how to raise boys alone


how to be in three places at once


they should have taught us these things


because I never liked playing bridge anyway....