A Song Once Sung To An Infant Under The Gun.

Today the time ran out

just as it had begun—

Hot water fills the tub

you swore you’d never become—

It’s warm and shallow now

cut servings for only one—

The echo down the hall, well

that’s just yesterdays love—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

Today the moon refused

to trade place with the sun—

Sidewalks full of people

but still you know only one—

It’s an impossible force

that drags you from yourself—

Now it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

I try, you know I do, to balance

fault lines and faith, the surgeons

steel blade, it draws a bridge between both—

It’s a symphony of simple things

that will seem eclipsed by the sun—

Cause it’s all become a song once sung

to an infant under the gun.

California, 2020

The difference between women, men, and scars.

Scars heal.
Women don’t.
Women remember everything.
Every failed step.
Every spoken word, every mistake.

But women forget sometimes,
that men too
are unlike scars.

Men don’t heal either.
Men remember everything.
Every time, every opportunity.
And every failed step.

Then there are scars.
The untimely breakup,
which neither swears
they ever saw coming.