Gotham

Gotham pokes his meaty index finger right into your chest.  He pokes you
-Hey!  You cool?
-Yeah, I'm cool
-Oh yeah? Prove it
-Don't have to
-Yeah, you cool
Then Gotham walks away

All of winter in a Sunday morning

Sunshine yet snow squalls
Palms, alms
Friendships rekindled through loss
Coffee and errands
Slippery steps collecting into puddles

All of winter in a Sunday morning

When You're Gone

A poem of remembrance:

                                       To prepare myself for bed      Come the morning 

                           As I head upstairs                                            I will turn it out 

                 I will turn on the porch light                                       When I reach bottom 

         Of an evening                                                                                         To start my day

When you’re gone                                                                                                    And think of you