By: Richard LeDue

The poem I never wrote

would have been detailed
(margins overcrowded as homeless shelters,
words lined up like they’re waiting
to cash cheques in a digital age),
but it’s okay

because at least in the backseat
there’s a grocery store bouquet of roses
that drips and fills its plastic shopping bag,

still love songs,
with everything already said
a million times over,

birthmarks giving hints
about past lives,
only to be ignored by binge watching Netflix,

and walls (not even interesting enough
to be lined with old newspapers)
that tell lies about security.

A Random Tuesday Thought

Flesh is an anchor,
keeping us from floating away
like animal cracker shaped clouds,
and the water is neither holy,
nor sacrilegious , but spits up life,
such as Hadean Eon aquatic creatures
who aspired to crawl,
only to become something
that needed to pray,
instead of realizing life is the miracle.

Comfort Food

The melting snow is somehow like a growing shadow,
reminding me that not all deaths are cold,
that there’s hugs and handshakes at wakes,
while a cousin reheats lasagna
or another comfort food
because looking at a corpse
livens up a person’s appetite,
and the puddles shouldn’t be compare to tears,
but instead to death’s sweat,
proving one lived right.