Almost Five


Yellow yarn connects 
the two parts of her handmade phone. 
And because we tell her No! 
she presses her index finger to 
the mirror-image numbers. 
” I’m calling 911 for a better life.”

The world she inhabits 
within our house, 
where the fires of Fantasia 
burn through the television 
and engulf the living room, 
now holds equal sway with our own.

A rural graveyard and 
somber explanation of death 
only bring a lightbulb smile: 
” I have a great idea! 
Let’s get some sticks 
and dig the people up,”

An autumn hike 
through neighborhood woods 
ends with an off-key lullaby 
to stir fairies sleeping 
under a rotting log.

As this world burns away 
like morning fog 
may it leave a trace-


Read more poems


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>