First Date
he leans
back
picks his
teeth
pushes away from the table
sticks out
his gut
and boasts
blah blah
blah
she remembers
a book
she left open on
her nightstand
crosses
her legs
feigns a
headache
he brags on
says he is
good in bed
at the door, she shakes
his hand
thanks him for
dinner
shuts it behind her
he peels down the driveway
opens her book and
enters the
world
miracles are
made of
Imagination
eggs rumble in
boiling water
the pen is poised
on the page
moves
furiously
across its
horizon
mourning
doves coo in the wind
the day has
begun
Blossoms Aren’t Late
I used to say I was a late bloomer
as I sat waiting for you
in a state of meantime
and busied myself with things
of passion.
In my 60’s
my petals have turned to compost
I think I am re-sprouting
having blossomed after all.
~Jan Marquart
