Loverpie (poem)

Jared calls me
"Loverpie"
because he is trying out
new nicknames.
Babe, lover, darling --
all the previous dubbings.
He is young and thin
and I hired him once
to clerk my store
during a Christmas holiday.
He tells me
he is only friends
with attractive people
who will photograph
well with him.
Years after the Christmas
holiday, we photograph
well together still.
Long distance now,
he calls me with the latest
gossip, I call him
with mine, an even
exchange of fabulous
for friends worthy
of try-it-on-please nicknames

A Terrible Sonnet about Bill's Birthday (poem)

for Bill, who requested a sonnet ;-)

The keg was left from Saturday night
so there was only one thing left to do --
drink from it 'til we weren't upright
adding shots of tequila, too.

It was a Tuesday night but we didn't care
about staying up too late.
Cheers of "Happy Birthday, Bill!" filled the air
and we ate an ice cream cake.

In a darkened room, we turned on Lost
while dogs found games to play
When we needed breaks, we just hit pause
to say the things we say

{{WHO??}}

And when it's time to go to bed
I dream of kittens all over Bill's homestead.

Bill's Official Thirty-third Birthday (poem)

They say you only turn thirty-three once
but for Bill, we celebrated twice.
Here's this leftover keg from Saturday --
let's kick it on a Tuesday.
Full shots of tequila chase our plastic cups
of Bud Light and knives are tested,
not thrown. While we wait for pizza dough
to rise, dogs, mostly domesticated, slide
across hardwood and end
in a growl. Tommy walks among those
beasts, in graying degrees of drunk,
while the rest of us find holds
on couches and floors, beer in one hand,
pizza in the other, watching parallel universes
exist obliviously to each other on the final season
of Lost, pausing now and then for patchless smoke
breaks, trips down shared history lane, and an ice
cream cake scripting "Your Bear Hat is Awesome,"
a phrase only a slice of us understand. The candles
are beer steins and Kelly has to set them on fire
because Tommy is making a video including me
failing with the lighter. The night idles
away to quiet two a.m. chit chat
about fake boobs and hairy asses and one last
hit before we drift apart to a house asleep
on the first day of Bill's thirty-third year.

Poet's Reunion Supper (poem)

He says even we
are mediocre, at best,
students, always, crafting
away on a useless course,
so all the better
we lack brilliance.
He is brightly phrased,
rarely making eye contact,
bringing up my past
lovers with casual nostalgia.
I am patient and I am open
to his suggestion, disagreeing
only occasionally.
I see how much this means
to him and how much it means
to me and I am already learning
about this revision process.

Taco Haiku (poem)

for Bill, by request

Tacos bring such joy
Meat, cheese, lettuce, and salsa
Crunch between my teeth