The Secret
One day I want you to tell me/
about love, and not the kind/
that would be called sensible./
Ringside
Onlookers always share thoughts/
from the comfort of their seats/
where they are spared/
the sweat and spit/
from the bloody match below./
The Smell of America
“It smells like The States!” We screamed as we ripped the tape off the large box that arrived via freight. Inside we hoped to find
Muck
We are always told to let go./
As if loss were sand to throw/
for the wind to take away./
You didn’t read
Stop complaining that school didn’t teach you about the real deal of living — the broken hearts, the strange politics, the empty wallet, the hankering
Not A War
I want to tell you/
that the end of love/
is not a war with victors/
although there might be sides./