Nikko met me over Sunday football,
we cheered the Bills on.

Halftime came
and with his trust in me
he explains–
his father's war with cancer,
how he is chained to oxygen–
supported, yet, imprisoned
it seemed

The family flew to Greece–
where they're from and revisit
Papa climbed the lighthouse stairs
step
after
slow step
seeping small breaths
toward his memory
into the sky
to meet with his god

What a lovely day I thought,
Morning sun smiling down
Balloons float across the firmament
Coloured kites look like sky writing
Jet planes breathe vapor trails
Thin wispy cirrus painted on an Azure sky.

What a lovely day I thought,
As I lay in the field
Beside bales of hay
While having a heart attack

Another dinner at our favorite spot
Was something that tied me into a knot

She started with all she had done
Starting to take away the fun

She washes my floors and my clothes
A job that everyone knows

She pays the bills, gets the kids up for school
And prepares for the usual daily dual

I listen quietly all during the meal
Afraid to respond to anything real

The check arrives awaiting a payment
She waits to see who will claim it

Sorry, I forgot my wallet my Dear
I ready myself for what I will hear !

The moon hangs like a pendulum,
too weary to swing.

It reflects on his pocket watch—
half-wound, right where he left it.

I turn tiny screws
and set delicate gears
with reverence,
feeling the heartache
between seconds.

His workbench, now mine,
is worn smooth by years,
and instead of tocks and chimes,
I count our memories
in silence.

He counted life in ticks,
but the grandfather clock
stopped when he did.

Her life feels
very much like

a banquet table
offering only

side dishes,
and all

the chairs
are full,

save one.

Beneath the whispering canopy of trees,
Flows a ribbon of silver, soft with ease.
Our very own creek, with its rhythmic beat,
As sunlight dances, and the willows weep.

Pebbles glisten, kissed by the stream,
A place of wonder, a waking dream.
Its gentle murmur, a lullaby sweet,
Guides weary hearts to a calm retreat.

At its banks we wander, coolness we seek,
In the loving embrace of our own creek.
A timeless bond, this flowing sacred space,
Where nature and soul find their grace.

In the heart of life
we grow—
sometimes friends,
sometimes foes.

We build,
we construct
and sometimes,
we destruct.

But we all end,
wretched,
worthless,

six feet under,
under a gravestone

On the back seat of the 144
a girl laments her unfaithful lover.
I cannot sleep at night, she sings,
knowing that he lies with another.
Each verse a dagger and I twist
and turn around, curious to discover
the song and singer; her eyes mourn,
she is wind-ripped and heart-cracked.
I hesitate to interrupt, as if it’s TV
and I’m witnessing a murder.
She rings the bell and rises.
A trudge along the bus, she disembarks,
pausing to discard the return ticket.
Her song is finished. At the corner

The imagined intimated response
linkedin to a swindler's
imagined thought bubble
silently spouting you ain't nothing
but a pluperfect sucker...
rendered penniless suffered
courtesy a financial blow
now left forced to eat crow
forfeiting every last red cent,
plus if applicable escrow
being analogous to an indentured servant
denied luxury and security of nest egg,
hence peace of mind to forego
pipe dreams given the heave-ho
resigned to dig up potatoes in Idaho

I miss you,
though you were never mine to lose.
I miss the safety in your smile,
the warmth of a hand that only touched my hair once.

It wasn’t you I loved,
it was the feeling—
that fleeting moment where I was seen,
where I was held without being held.

I ache for a father
I never truly had,
for words I never heard,
for love that never grew roots in me.

I grieve ghosts,
shadows of what could have been,
and still, my heart insists
on carrying their weight.