nova

window down, my fingers 
tracing circles into 
the wind.

jim croce crackles in AM
sunshine, 
'...never seems to be 
enough time
to do the things 
you want to do 
once you find them.'

my warm face
follows your gaze
out into the road
ahead.

how does a kid 
know
they are a son?
maybe
by the things
they notice
about their dad.

you whistle, i wonder.
when will i be
like you?

coffee would have
to taste good.

leaving early
and returning late
to dinner
laid out
for me 
would be 
a nice change.

and i'd have to know
all of the songs 
on the radio.

if i were mansized,
would I have to
wear a seatbelt?

you said that's why
you don't.
so
i wouldn't either
i guess.

we fly through
the morning
in your orange chevy
bracing over
small hills.

we defy gravity
in moments of
lift off
and
laughter.

could i be 
like you?

someone
that the rules
of physics did
not apply
to?



soma

nights like 
that, when
the line
between awake
and sleep
never breaks,
the comfort
of comforters
can’t take
me across
the curt
eternity of
blurred reality.
before dawn
stares back
at me
i hold my
third coffee
and stir
in the disturbed
slurry of a
morning that
will only
follow
restlessly.
nights like
that upend
the senses
leaving me
defenceless
against a
day without
an end.