Undo

I want an undo option on the keyboard of my life. Not for big stuff, but for small, mindless typos dotting my page. When I scrape my knuckle on the bathroom drawer it will unfold the warped flap of skin and before my eyes lay it back down healed. When I blurt out words that should be kept to myself, it will suck them back as if through a straw to the moment just before their utterance. When I drop a capless permanent marker that skids across my pant leg and lands tip down on my shoe it will rewind the action, leaving the surfaces clean and the pen back in my hand in time for me to add the cap. When I turn too sharply in the spiraling parking structure and scrape my van on an interior wall, it will replay the action with me two inches in the clear. My undo key must be hidden and safe; perhaps my armpit so I don't accidentally undo the undo, and break my nail in the frenzy.

Brain Drain

At the instant your words reach my ears, inviting me to listen, the audible stream washes me from your side, hoses me like heavy rain down a storm drain, bound for the sewer of my brain. I struggle to hold on to the grate, to hear you through the chaos. Your voice fades to the background as a bubble encircles my head, fills with my own story of a time I felt exactly like you, which competes with a list of objections to your viewpoint and your tone, and is followed by a clear picture of what you should do next. Out of context, out of nowhere pops an inspiration for my next poem and the realization that you’re wearing new glasses. The cacophony ricochets from wall to wall, reduces your voice to a distant plea to be heard.

Sleeping with the Man in the Moon

Just about the time I forget him

the Man in the Moon returns,

glides down a branch, 

tiptoes through double-paned windows 

just above my  head, 

tangos on my pillow in white satin shoes, 

teases me awake, 

bathes me in milky magic, and 

leaves me delicious.