dear bill,

so sweet of you
to leave behind
a paper jot
for me to find

for ev’ry breakfast
lunch and tea
gone missing since
you married me;

- however -

such wilfulness
I do condemn
each crust and crumb,
each stone and stem,

each potluck plum
purloined at night
to satisfy
your appetite;

this doctor’s wife
has had her fill
of poetry
and bitter pills,

and crumpled drafts
in juicy scrawl
appended to
the icebox door;

your words do not
a meal make
how many more
must I forsake

- meals, that is -

before your page
is fit for press
and I can sup
on more…not less

love, floss

ps dinner’s in the oven, probably

Chances are I'm not the man I think I am. Chances are I'm not the man
I make myself out to be.
Chances are I'm somewhere in between.
Chances are it's the same for you too.
Now, whether that's a good thing or bad thing, that's up to you.
But whatever the answer, Chances are,
you're amazing just the way you are

There is a bitter taste
Pressed to my mouth
As I sip my tea.

There’s a thought that’s lives
I wish to drown out
But can I ever cede.

All this has been steeping
And it’s now too strong.
I’ll have to deal with it.

You were asked if you wanted to get together and
you said probably. Now that answer’s haunting me
after seeing how quickly  probably turns into not
with me. You just promised me probably for a
proper flee from damaged property. Do you think
if you said maybe I’d assume you hate me? No
would’ve been the correct route to go instead of
engendering excessive expectations for my existence.

Pastors probably preach patience but paradigms
shift once penetrated by paramount peer pressure.
Answers are hard to find when only probably is
spoken by God to me. I’m probably an oddity that
doesn’t know what probably means, but I guessed
it meant yes unless something unforeseen happened
to be. But probably just means you’re not for me
less awkwardly.

I don’t know where to begin, probably when you told
me my live for you was a sin. I don’t know when it
ends, probably when I have no more time to spend. I
don’t know who I am, probably the guy that fell for
love’s scam. I don’t know what I desire, probably to
extinguish love’s fire.

go back to where it began:
trombone / cob nut / tadpole / violin /
you fell —
and i have not breathed it since
except that hot summer;
when we excavated
an entire roman village of chicken bones
from the soil
where now there are none