Scissors

I need to find the scissors!
They always disappear
Empty is the kitchen drawer
(where they were shut
out of sight, out of mind
until I wanted to sever
or clip,
to permanently rend
in a second’s snip)

Someone is resistant!
To cutting and cleaving,
Slicing asunder
Or slashing to slits;
To splice is more polite
To reassemble, build, combine

But I must find those scissors.
To chop and piece (I need)
To strips and bits the old—
Confetti to throw up, to float and fly
(I need)
To fall into the future

good penny

You keep turning up
In my dreams
Where we star together in
Scenes from a sentimental movie—
I’m the quirky heroine
You’re my indie hero
And we’re famously in love . . .
But it’s not you,
Just a shiny doppelganger
Not tarnished by bitterness
Or intimacy-dulled at the edges;
Crisp, new, and bright
Heads up
For good luck,
Just a good penny
That keeps turning up

Live at the --

Strangers’ bodies bumping
Elbows in the spine
Mobs of unknown people
Restless feet in lines

Rows of human wheat
Transplanted in strange soil
Swaying together through the heat
Distinct as water and oil

To step on one another’s toes
And splash a stranger with their beer
To talk in someone else’s ear
And share their sweat and who knows what else
And push and grumble and stare
Trying not to acknowledge the ones with whom they’re sharing air
Feeling dirty, sweaty, and abused

Until the gods appear!
To strum a chord, and beat the drums,
And play to appease the hoard
Who sings and worships to and fro
Still bumping into those they do not know