whisperings

as she lay asleep in my lap
i whispered secrets in her ear,
things i'd dare not utter
if she were fully awake.

perhaps her subconscious mind
was able to record all i said,
and will reveal to her the truth
through intuition and dreams.

until that time comes,
i remain ever hopeful,
that she'll reciprocate my feelings,
and say them back some day.

h(u)ma(nity)

a young man sits in his city loft,
worrying about a girl he likes.
a hardworking immigrant says goodnight,
kissing her four already sleeping children.

a rich businessman dines at a fancy restaurant,
complaining to the waiter about his meal.
a foster child cowers under his sheets,
hoping his new mom isn't angry tonight.

a pregnant teen worries about her baby,
questioning if he'll have a father.
a middle eastern housewife receives beatings,
for looking at a man in the market.

a troubled poet tries to find the words,
pondering whether to tell her how he feels.
a small boy clutches his stomach,
wondering if he'll make it through the night.

a very ordinary person looks for answers,
trying to make sense of their life.
a separate person lives miles away,
asking the same exact questions.

the fog rolled in
like an obtrusive guest,
blanketing the harbor
in its thick presence.

lamps flickered
like summer fireflies
as their ship arrived,
just barely late.

its horn bellowed,
drowning out the
rhythmic sound
of water slapping the dock.

where this ship was going,
was not as big a mystery
as what they would do,
once they got there.

prompt: igloo bright

Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, Mitch would head into the attic, grab a huge trash bag labeled "Christmas" and march into the backyard. His wife, Sandy, would hear him first, banging his way down the stairs, and see him next, the huge bag slung over his shoulder like Santa with a bag of toys. Rolling her eyes, she'd say "Oh for pete's sake, babe. Again? This year?" To which he'd reply "Of course! This year, next year, every year!"

Dumping his cargo on the lawn, which with any luck was lightly dusted with snow by now, he'd carefully unpack a giant, inflatable igloo. Patches of masking tape covered puncture holes -- accidents from when the kids were little. Now they were grown up. No longer asking for power wheels. No longer excited about an old, beat up igloo.

Shaking those thoughts, he proceeded to blow up -- all by himself -- the large igloo, which, despite his family's reluctance, he'd wager would still comfortably fit all of them. When he'd given all his lungs could muster and the sky began to spin due to his lightheadedness, Mitch sat back and admired his work. His wife decorated indoors, baked cookies, did most of the Christmas shopping. This, though, this was his.

He continued to reminisce as he adorned the fluffy abode with bright, fat, colorful Christmas lights. His wife, of course, liked white lights. Mitch preferred blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Even purple, orange, magenta. A shining beacon he bought after their second child was born. Each year they used to get a small tree, pack all their wrapped gifts beneath it, and spend the night inside in sleeping bags. When their oldest reached double digits and heard in school Santa wasn't real, he wanted to stay in his bedroom Christmas Eve. Not wanting him to be in the house alone, Sandy slept indoors, too. The next year their youngest followed suit.

Still, Mitch set it up, every year. Lights intertwined, flowed, and danced, their bright hues bouncing off the white snow and creating a smorgasbord of color. His work almost done, all that was left was to affix the family's guardian angel Christmas tree topper at its summit. While normally it would be meant for a tree, it had looked over his family since the days they'd slept inside the igloo.

Mere days from Christmas, tragedy struck in Mitch's neighborhood.

A family down the street, the Donahues, had lost their home when a faulty space heater started a fire in the middle of the night, which burned their house to the ground. Members of the community pitched in to help them in any way they could -- new clothing, food, gift cards to replace all their damaged housewares and furnishings. Mitch knew Daryl was a contractor and work was slow. The family couldn't afford to stay in a hotel for weeks, and the closest family was more than ten states away. Daryl couldn't do that to the kids mere days from Christmas. Mitch also knew he was too proud to stay for free at a hotel or accept patronage. Even at a time like this. There'd even been rumors they were sleeping in Daryl's work van.

Mitch hatched a plan. He invited the Donahues over for dinner on Christmas Eve, under the pretense that they'd host next year to appease Daryl. During dinner, Mitch jokingly mentioned the fun the kids used to have when they were little, sleeping out in the igloo on Christmas Eve night. Daryl's kids, while only a few years younger than Mitch's, still very much believed in Santa, and thus squealed, begged, and pleaded with their dad. "Please, dad! Please! Can we?" they asked him, their eyes full of excitement. "How 'bout it, Daryl? For the kids?" Mitch asked.

And so it was with a huge grin and a skip in his step that Mitch led the children, bundled in some old winter coats and sweaters Sandy had found that their own children had stopped wearing long ago, out to the fluorescent, shimmering igloo. The kids' mouths made perfect "o" shapes and their eyes widened, their pupils reflecting the light of the vibrant, colored bulbs. Scampering inside, they huddled into their sleeping bags, and, after being assured Santa could get into the igloo, they fell asleep.

Mitch awoke the next morning to the sounds of excited laughter. Donned in his pajamas and armed with only a cup of coffee and a quizzical look, he made his way to the backyard. The door to the igloo was open, but he could see inside. There, underneath the tree inside the igloo, were piles of presents. And from the look of his barren fireplace hearth, they were his own children's presents. That's when he heard: "Here, Santa left this one for you, too!" as he saw his oldest son hand over his own Christmas gift. A few tears began to freeze on his cheeks as Mitch stood back and admired his magical, brightly lit, inflatable igloo. His gaze lead him upward, to the solitary guardian angel, sitting atop the makeshift dwelling, as if to bless all of those within.

evidence surely exists
of the love i felt for you,
though it is not the angry texts
or torn bedroom curtains.

it is likewise not my car,
with "whore" scratched in the paint,
or the hole still in my wall,
that at the time was inches from my head.

nor is it the scars on my arms,
the tattoo on my shoulder,
or what you temporarily put in my belly
late one saturday night.

the real evidence is on my cheeks,
and countless used tissues,
an unwanted physical reaction,
just when I thought the pain had stopped.

when we were together,
i was always chasing her,
struggling to keep up,
and not be left behind.

so vivacious, and alive,
she did not slow at all,
forging onward like a hurricane,
while i was the rain in her wake.

after running for so long,
i worried she'd never stop,
to let me catch back up,
panting, out of breath.

and so, while risky,
i continued after her,
praying her outline on the horizon,
would get just a little bigger.

solitude by the window

i stare out onto the street
as cars drive by, their lights
ever so briefly illuminating me,
solitary, like a ghost.

i lean my forehead on the glass,
feel the night air invading
through a tiny crack,
and close my eyes.

i pull my feet up
and hug my knees,
wrapping a blanket around me
like armor, for security.

i refrain from inner thought,
of the pain residing there,
and instead gaze out the window,
easy to see through, unlike my heart.

cafe acting

she walks in the shop,
puts down coins with a clink,
turns to tell the owner,
"something strong to drink."

scanning tables she sees,
a man busy with work, distraught,
and another in the corner,
alone, with his thoughts.

she approaches this lonesome man,
trying to gauge the signs,
she asks if he is free,
to help her with her lines.

she says in just under an hour,
is an important casting call,
so if he didn't mind,
to just read the lines for Paul.

but he betrays no expression,
his lips don't ever part,
"here, just take the script," she says,
"I'm the lead, I'll start."

"Paul, I'm so sorry,
this isn't what I'd planned,"
to which the man replies,
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"It isn't you, I swear,
I've just become distant,
and that detached feeling,
is all that's consistent."

"Ok," says the girl,
"now I go to the Loo,
come back minutes later, and say,
"I'm sorry you never knew."

"I don't understand," the man says,
pain lingering in his eyes,
to which the girl responds,
as her character slowly cries.

the man looks on, perplexed,
as she wipes tears with her sleeves,
"I'm sorry Paul, I have to go,
a kiss before I leave?"

"no," the man utters,
as he blankly stares,
"and a wrap," said the girl,
easing out of her chair.

"well, I think I've got it, she says,
but I must jet, I'm late!
you were such a huge help, thanks,
like a natural, you were great!"

then a woman exits the bathroom,
and walks up to the lonesome man,
"I'm sorry you never knew," she says,
and still, he didn't understand.

"Listen, I've got to run,
a kiss before I go?"
but the man sat still, silent,
numb from head to toe.