Bad metaphor

You used to drink coffee and now it’s tea,

but that’s a weak metaphor,

since I’m the stronger.

But that’s a strong stance,

watered down in arms of coffee,

on a cube that might be ice.

I brewed like twice used leaves,

and asked you not to notice,

but even you can’t drink lies.

I think you know, I tried to be coffee,

but Lord knows, I could never be that bitter.

She knows it too.

Coffee stared me down today,

and before my cherry crumble chewed,

I knew, right then, you were still addicted. 

Pretty Nonetheless

Under desert skies

on two wheels and freedom,

the road leans forward.

Miles and feet,

where feet have never touched,

where dust never wakes.

Step off and grit the shoes,

crunch the soil,

taste the air.

This patch is

plaid, but not leather,

breath, but not a sigh,

echoes, but doesn’t sing,

and God knows,

every speck of dirt can sing,

if you remind if of first melody.

She sings, but in leather and sighs,

and those two wheels.

She clings so tight it could meld two to one.

Her song wasn’t the secret.

This dirt didn’t need it.

Walking on leaves

I never knew I was lost in the woods,

wandering up and down non-existent paths.

Thought I’d cheated pain,

cheated loss.

How suffocating those trees were?

For years they were my haven.

Then the sky arrived,

and at my first glimpse of the stars,

the years rained down

and my face found yours,

and your hands, your arms, your eyes, and starlight

gave me peace.

There’s a warmth now,

like music,

that shakes my bones.

It grabs my veins like pick-up-sticks,

and pulls me close

to you.

The bird feeder

She turns her head from side to side,

with locks that swing like Christmas bells,

and pours tea, for the man who feeds the birds.

The man who feeds the birds is tall,

not slumped, but proud and lean.

His wit, an insatiable flicker.

He never knew he loved the birds,

but I guess he always has.

He always had those crumbs on hand,

the birds don’t know he’s jazz.

Unresolving, inconclusive,

but lemon fresh and kind,

The man who feeds the birds

could make you lose your mind.

He lost his once,

to the green eyes and freckles of a goddess.

He found himself in her blue dress sway,

was trapped in light perfume bliss.

Now everything is packed away,

and he sleeps on a bed with bars.

His head on the floor,

his heart at the door,

and she never knew he waited.

“I’m not going to feed you anymore baby bird.”