Thumbprint

She was the blue car 

on the inside 

of the innovative electric circuit, 

the black racetrack 

with yellow lines, 

knowing it was

easy to outstrip her opponent

if she could play her hand right,

a red mark on her thumb

from trying too hard -

the car once again jumps the tracks - 

damn.

Fortunately, her concentration broken, 

she acknowledges 

the intense feeling of relief 

that accompanies finally, truly

exiting the endless, anxiety ridden 

circle of almost-logic 

that defies conversation,

thoughts motivated by 

"rational decision-making"

that undercuts, undermines

true emotion. 

Or perhaps it reveals the truth, 

because without emotion

it's not a fun game anyway - 

who would want to play?

So, this time, she chooses to be the red car 

on the outside of the track, 

slows her breathing,

presses her thumb down,

and envisions a different outcome.

the catting hour

  4 am is the catting hour.

she stretches and watches
two little bodies pad away,

happy to have roused her.
fluttering eyelids register the clock,
her mind grasps at wisps of dreams
and a peaceful warmth spreads
from the tips of her toes
to the top of her head
and she rolls out of bed.

but, first, she smiles.

Eddie Money

$12: enter a grimy back room

$8: two tiny cranberry vodkas

$4: check your winter coats 

$2: tip jar

then we bathe 

in the pulsating lights

that transport us to the 80s

where Eddie Money

echoes the sentiments 

rolling through our bodies, 

(anticipation is running through me)

then a phone call, too much booze,   

something happens that ruins the fantasy

(I don’t want to let you go) 

and we re-emerge into the freezing air,

and kiss against a chain link fence on Ave B, 

(I can feel you breathe)

until I am suddenly faced 

with emptiness and a dead end

(I get frightened in all this darkness) 

baited and switched

for a pretend

version of myself,

trapped in a corner, called crazy,

searching, waiting, wanting,

(I get nightmares)
please, just take me home.