Simone.

Red lips, matching shoes;

A gust of blonde hair,

a cigarette.

She pulls her jacket 

tight,

exhaling,

waiting.

Mondays are the

worst - school.

Tuesdays she gets

off work early.

Wednesdays, Thursdays, 

fill in the blanks. 

Falls in love with Fridays.

Saturdays are an affair, 

Sundays are the breakup.

A light drizzle, 

rainy fog, 

her bus pulls up.

Today she'd be 

punctual.

5 O'Clock

Cars, cars, cars,
an endless line of postwork pearls. 


Buzz, buzz, buzz, 
rows of gleaming headlights. 


Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, 
smooth downhill streams. 


Home, home, home, 
and then back up again. 

Little Things.

You wake up as a little thing.
You go to school as a little thing. 
You go to work as a little thing. 
You go to sleep as a little thing.


You work on little things.
You keep little things. 
You hold on to little things. 
'Cause it's the little things that count. 

A Moment.

A shared cigarette
    on the balcony.
Words falling between
    them like ashes
whisked away with 
   a sigh and a simple gesture.

Supposed to.

Spring  is supposed to be a fresh start 
after a long, bleak winter.
Supposed to.
Nature is supposed to start anew;
snow melts, blossoms bloom.
Supposed to.
Creatures are supposed to return, 
to shed their winter coats. 
Supposed to.
Sunshine is to supposed to warm, 
our limbs, our hearts.
Supposed to.
As when the leaves turned, 
as when the year turned, 
we're supposed 
to start 
anew. 
Supposed to.