Golden

Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.

Daylight Savings Time

I wake up
to find
that time
has taken
yet another hour
and flushed it down
the toilet bowl
of my soiled mind.

They call it
Daylight Savings Time.

But I wonder
if I
could take back
that erased hour
and place it in my pocket,
with all the other shit
I’ve saved — little secrets
I’m unwilling to admit.

Could they work together
to create, a fiction
to explain
your love, my love, our love(s) erased,
replaced in picture frame.
And throw them up, unrecognized
into the evening sky.

Where there is loss, there too is light
like Daylight Savings Time.