he got the California

kicked outta him,

and moved to the land

with no teeth.

slurping snow cones

(which were always in season)

and glorifying bushy brows

–deeds to ghost towns,

and recycled rumination,

his views were limitless–

on a monthly basis—

limitless

–bounded only by Netflix

line-up.

Easy Boys

watered terrace with rain

. . .

a comforting pattern

that raised ice-cubes

in night’s cool black blanket

–where sorrow stood sentinel,

& memory kept

breathing books.

Collecting

checkers,

I arrange them on a grid

–avoiding the final row

like Camus–

The plan’s to progress

to backgammon

counters,
 
 

–for which a suitcase is in order–

and once complete,

Chess is next move

–interlocking pieces shaping L’s–

eschewing base

of glass.

Tired of PBJ’s

I wanted a different

kind of lunch

–a meal I made myself—

and having

plenty

of nut butter left

–and just scraps of other fare, and

Hubbard wherewithal—

the change was more difficult

than anticipated

–hard to palate,

but harder to stomach—

I chucked nuts

for chicken–

chicken

for

cheese–

cheese

for seed—

&

8

–comfort food I grew to prefer.

No gardener,

I clipped hedges

sparsely

–shaping waffles. . .

No chef,

those waffles

resembled nothing so much as

fences. . .

No guard

~or foil~

all 3 spoiled.

(while I looked on contemplatively)

. . .

yo-yoing

Forever is relative.

Your forever is not mine.

20, 40, 60. . .

It’s personal.

finite.