The Mountain

I am no one

and yet every day
I stand atop
the mountain
screaming faith
and disease
poverty and loneliness.

I am no one
no one listens.

At the bottom of
the mountain
I’ll regain composure
wishing tomorrow
comes again
and again.

Down The Middle

Sitting in front of the
Junior High
we made out
like long
lost
lovers a lifetime apart.

Linde, daughter of
an aspiring country musician.

It seemed fitting then
her eyes drooped
sparkled
like a puppy dog
tilted forward
hands never leaving her lap.

In thick sweaters
she parted her
rust-colored hair neatly
down the middle,
which is also where
she would remain
emotionally parked
both balanced and boring.

Seventeen years ago
we kissed
sat awkwardly
against bricks
groping for answers
to our urges.

Perhaps the sweaters
hid a horrible disfigurement
violent shoulder/arm psoriasis
or a colony of boils
splitting at the elbow.
It seemed impossible
from the milky
sweet cheeks
I navigated to
blossoming lips,
but long sleeves
in summer
must have been
feverishly uncomfortable.

You kissed well, Linde
well enough for me
to remember.