If I appear to function,
it is testament to adaptability –

I am socially awkward,
with a side of dreamer –

wandering, spinning,
need someone to bring me back –

not adverse to fairytale kisses
or happily-ever-afters –

please, somebody beam me up,
set me down where life is

a festival – music, costumes,
the joyous sensation of belonging.



When Fantasy Usurps Reality

Vacationing, she says, is vital –
wants her children to experience
game-packed adventure, excess
non-stop fun – anything to evade

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Dreams of the spotlight of celebrity,
wealth, she thinks, would be freeing,
they’d buy location, nest in opulence,
court sanity, breakthrough the pain

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Fame, temporary as the aurora borealis,
blinds her – cannot bear the inclusiveness
of normalcy, offspring bursting their halos,
unknowns tied to origin – escape is hope

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

She is tired of small talk, of exaggerated
tales of children’s exploits readily falling
off mothers’ tongues, women whose
vibrancy depends on husbands’ return

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Considers herself a non-resident,
a temporary guest, consumed,
questioning – views the contest
as overly manipulated, is lost in

this place, this longing, this subterfuge.


Love, Like Shoes

If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.

My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.

If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,

settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.

No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,

discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.



I covet a place hidden
from view, tucked in
between the Highway
Of Life’s Disappointments
and the Edge of the World.

Access cloaked by years
of unkempt bramble, forks
left, just before the abrupt
right turn onto the Freeway
Of Destiny’s Next Calling.

A hermit’s cottage, quaint,
shrouded in the Forest of
Puppeteers, where one can
live a simple pantomime –
pretend strings don’t exist.

Perpetually perched between
bustle and abyss – a child’s game
of I can’t see you, you must not
be able to see me – I’d sleep,
a blissful state of detachment.