Awareness Sublime

today I walked into the post office.
just inside the door that never locks,
and the silver trim protectively surrounding her,
i saw it.
up against the corner swept weekly,
probably daily in the winter,
almost already behind me,
was a lone white plastic sack.
the contents inside
dwindled down to one cucumber
someone’s summer bounty,
now one of yours,
left, possibly given, presumably abandoned.
I flicked the envelopes into the slot,
turned two keys looking for more requirements,
thankful there wasn’t a spinning combination lock anymore.
somebody take her home, I thought, as I pushed the door open to leave,
and listened as it shut.

I’m Not An Italian Poetess

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Typical Monday, it seems. Tried making lunch, while writing my feelings. Epic fail ensues, as thoughts continue to pursue my mind. Forcing me so easily to forget the time.

Poet’s are always lyrical, definitely this one, it seems. I can’t get past writing this as poetry. Stick a knife in my side. Please, won’t you abide? My friends, don’t write and bake, unless burned¬†pizza is all you’re willing to take. My wishes sincere, once again, don’t do both while planning to eat, you won’t win.

Thankful I have a few other attributes that keep you coming around. Like maybe my smile or even my frowns. Tears shower plenty upon these walls, oh God, stop her before she continues to pitfall.

Laughter begins, oh look, a grin! Yep, tis possible, she’s drunk again. No, my friends, it isn’t so. I’m just handling a Monday, so far as this one goes…

Loyal followers, stay with me, please. This is only going to hurt for a minute. Slap happy grins is how I’ll spin it, you’ll see.

***
She’ll never be an Italian chef
and poetess, too
just look at what
wandering thoughts
can do…

Writer’s multitasking summer,
kitchen’s a wreck,
lovely ideas interrupt
baking, for endless possibilities,
if only I would’ve stopped to check…

This homemade pizza now crisp
and slightly burned, tis true
thankful, in the end
this treat,
is simply a vessel for brew…

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I should go back into the Houston sun. It’s just delightfully hot and humid here. Yeah, I know, I’m almost done. The end is near…

Yours,
Audrey

Vintage Memories

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Passed through the screen door,
Recalled the carpeted staircase,
Felt the pull of Maxine,
Grandmother, to me.
Twenty-three years, two months
Since we stood closely,
Right here
Packing odds and ends
To her,
Treasures, to me.
Cabinet I’ll never forget
Cookie dough testing,
“Needs flour, touch it, you’ll see,
Grab the butterscotch chips,
These will be Grandpa’s offerings.”
Sounds made when the drawers
Opened and closed, vintage whisperings,
Now upon my ears,
Fingertips sliding across moments,
Years.
Window gifting the same view,
advice,
Coverings, crisp and clean
Perfect place, for
Snapping green beans,
Twice.
Time to move the sprinklers,
Grab a bucket, strawberries to tend,
Summers without her
Still painful, something I dread.