Angel

Majestic and proud she stands against time.
Her body old and worn, but her spirit is still strong.
Only nine pounds and counting, but her eyes still stare with the devotion reminiscent of her puppy years.
Seventeen in dog years is a life time and then some, but to us it’s two life times too short.
Her fur soft and white as a dove at Christmas.
She’s barks with gusto at the vet as if saying, “don’t count me out yet, silly man. My name may be Angel, but I have a stubborn streak as long as the devils. I’ll go when I’m ready and not a minute less.”

My Past

Life on the road, sounded like a dream
The escape I needed.
Life swallowed me up and spit me out, but I kept driving
Even when the residue from deep ruts in life’s road stayed with me,
Staining my skin like an invisible birth mark
I kept driving
Scars covered my heart
A road map of misery I carried there
Her laugh scalds me, haunts me, beckons me,
She’s always there.
Waiting. Watching.
Humming her melody in the wind rushing in the windows,
Caressing my face,
Just waiting for me to turn around,
Waiting for me to look back.
But I kept driving.

What’s in a Table

Hollowed river valleys run through the wood on my table
The crevasses spider web out to catch all the remains of meals past
Trapped there are the crumbs of our lives.
Holding memories in its grooves like a mother clings to her child.
I wipe it off and set the table for dinner and start to cook.
There’s the ever present click, click ,click of a mouse or two.
She’s home from work, on her computer again.
Always on her computer, clicking her life away.
He does the same, in his room
Like mother, like son
Smells of onion and garlic slip through the air seductive with promises
“Swish, pop, sizzle,” says the food in the pan. The oven snaps like a steel trap.
Dinner’s served on my table
No more click clacks of the keyboards, just the buzz of a family enjoying their food.
No talking, just sitting and eating, together.
The moment settles around me like a blanket of loving arms.
I run my fingers along the smooth surface, reading the wear like a blindman reads brail.
Scratches, from meals shared and crafts learned,
places that cut hands were placed for band-aids,
bread kneaded, cookies rolled and cut out,
It’s where she told me a thousand times, she loved me,
it was all there, my table told me so.

Real Writer Life

Jazz playing, I’m in my own little café.

Dryer pinging with clothes, the small snores of puppies ruffle the air.

They make my familiar background noise.

My disgruntled cat glares from her perch like a queen waging war.

A makeshift desk with my laptop sits like a life raft in the sea of house chores.

The urge to run is there, I ignore it and sit down.

A few hundred words later, I can breathe again.