What I Am And What I Should Be

I was 26 when I became a rope,
stretched from loud brown cocktails to
the hush of burnt oven mits.

I was too thin to be stepped on,
so I just laid,
spread, fine butter for
Homemade Bread Men.

I went on as rope for two years,
reaching both ends of
limit. Ginger snaps
snapped back at me when
I raised a mother’s hand.
A trained ham clamming up, shaking
during the Spirits Earthquake.

I baked them by the dozen,
hard bread snaps to
braid me when I was bad.
Two years rowed its boat swiftly
and now
here I am.

A rope.
Spread thin over aging.
Frayed ends begging to be stayed.
They will not.
Time can not allow it, but time
will be easy on
middle belly.
Center ground.
That is what I should be.

Fruit Family

Some children have spiders in their
brains, pressing buttons at bedtime,
stopping nightmares,
praising mothers.

Other children have tapeworms.
Cynical parasites eating
juvenile appetites and vertebrae.

These children,
my children, come from
fertile plums and pears.
Summer fruit preparing
for decomposition at summer’s end.
As  time goes, so skin shrivels,
hardens,
plump curdles into plush and seeds
become fossils.

A fossil will not suck nutrients from dirt,
as it should,
as parasites do,
from Summer children.

These children prepare for
ripening. Drunk swans arrive in spring
suits,
mild pink bakery sleeps
through exchange
while a Summer child
tosses rotting
petals.

These children sit, arthritic,
decomposing. Smiling at
baby ripe fruit family.
Seeds,
fruits with  tapeworm scorn
creating  fossils for family to mourn.

Standard

Yesterday, you were
quixotic while I
came from lazy beggars. Yesterday, I
was obedient; buttoned up from the lips
down, waiting for a king’s summon.

Then, his majesty came out, knocking
on my
sun stained door. He arrived erect,
like a statue of a king
might, speaking assertively, made
up of upper-class
things.

I stood small. Barely reaching his knees.
Pushing myself to
abound in poise, to receive him equally.

We drew cards. When he smiled, I matched it.
When he threw wit, I caught it
in reciprocation.
I baked his boasts in cinnamon and
ate them as dessert.

By his majesty’s departure, he had
narrowed in volume.
Shrunk and blushing, he requested
me,
as a future gift to himself.

Now, I sit with his once luxurious crown,
recalling his Utopian image that left with him
yesterday.