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aching, and dreams,
fractured, injuries only
death could cure.
Have a nice vacation.
You too.
You relax.
You pretend to have fun.
You share a toast with me:
here’s to seasonal
madness, part-time
relatives and
substitutes for love.
The Prince of Albuquerque
June is pleasant in Reno,
kind of breezy and all.
I boarded the plane in
clingy jeans and a
long-sleeved T. Black.
It’s a whole lot hotter in Albuquerque.
I wobbled up the skywalk,
balancing heavy twin carry-ons.
Fingers of sweat grabbed
my hair and pressed it
against my face.
No one seemed to notice.
I scanned the crowd at the gate.
Too tall. Not tall enough.
Too old. Way too old.
There, with the sable hair,
much like my own.
