The pretty things
I could have kissed
the parties I have missed
it comes to this
unnatural pose
mangled flowers
children wailing under chairs
a teaspoon full of tears.
Ah, the parties, the pretty things
missed, kissed, it comes to this.
My Father’s Hands
Everyone wants surgeon hands
deft blood covered fingers.
Pianist painter guilt free hands
worker hands praying angry
athletes raised fists.
I’ve got my father’s hammer hands
nail fingers benzene burns calluses and scars
his hands knew tools and birthmarks
his fingers sharp knew magic wood.
My father’s hands knew liquor
trembling poured watch your back sad lonely drinks
crushed beer cans rabbit punched palmed dollars and razors.
His hands knew snake eyed dice
inside straights bent edge cards.
His fingers were fishnets
knew back doors down but not out whores
silk hems straight hair curls
did not look it they knew women.
His hands knew chicken necks
bull necks red necks and throats
sway backs ups and downs
blacks and whites white and black
left fingerprints on mom and me.
My father’s hands wanted no others.
I wanted his touch I have no hands.
Tea Cups
savored by lips
intimate with tepid
indifferent to scalds and scolds
utensils
appreciated occasionally
for beauty
form
function
found out in a small cupboard
survivors of rough treatment
tea cups
forged by itinerant alchemists
tinkering with fire, bone and ash
clumsy hands
and unexpected emotions
have killed others
vessels filled with temptation
and a new leaf.
Fried Chicken & Philosophy 