that old hotel

Each drive cross country

I’ve laughed, I have

Cried

Sang

Danced

Purged

Prayed

Lost and

Loved.

Etcetera,

etc…

So if you decide

to drive across state lines,

could you do me a solid?

Stop in Fayetteville.

See if that old hotel

is still standing,

the one I first told her I loved her,

—bedbugs and us—

before sleep took her away

and that cheap wine

nursed me tender

til morning’s

cruel light.

But how will you know

that old hotel? Well,

it’s just like all the rest now

I’m sure, remodeled to dust.

Another ghost among the many,

love’s whisper in the wind.

Picking Daisies

I know Matt Whitaker
I don’t know Matt Whitaker

Except, here’s the thing.

We’re not picking daisies
Mr. President
you’re running the country
Mr. President
and you don’t even know who you know?
Mr. President

America is not one of your companies.
America is not your next big deal.
America is not another bankruptcy for you to cash in on.

Mr. President
we’re not picking daisies,
but if we were
she’d love you not.