We think things are set in stone, the years before us
Quiet and smooth,– at least, here in America, in the heartland.
We see the days ahead, one after another, long and comfortable in their sameness.
The guys at the coffee shop, the weekly grocery run,
The ching of the cash register at our place of business.
But then the tornado comes, or the flood, or the death
And things are never the same.
Harsh desert sands blow
Stinging fiercely, piercing me
Cleansing me of you.
You have given me false memories, with
The touch of your body after all these years.
I remember things which never were.
The searing touch of our skin and the intertwining of our limbs
Makes me think we are closer than we really are…
Contact with you is
Dragging my heart into places that don’t exist.
Night after night, I think of ways to find you
In those forests of memories that don’t exist,
That belong to your other self.
Chrysanthemum in Vase
funeral flower —
after the coffin closes.
I rescue you.
Please make me smile
with your golden glow;
give me a point to survive the last shovelful of
echoes in my head.
Tired of the cold.
Tired of scraping windows.
Ah, but I used to live in Alaska, so I suppose I should be grateful for no
snows in June here.
This is a replica of Kurt Vonnegut’s writing area. It resides now in the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library located in Indianapolis, IN. Lovely small, but densely populated with Vonnegutalia.