I.  The poem
presents itself at the most akward of times;
the poem
is the itsy brown mouse zipping
across the dining room floor just as your mother-in-law
is properly seated.
There are two poems here;
it's all a matter of putting them down
in order of importance.

II.  The skin
on my palm is peeling.
Winter dry, I could halt the process
with lotion or cocoa butter, but am content
to do nothing.
The whole mess started with a snow shovel callous
that I wore as a Badge of Honor.
I pick at the skin, scratch it
until it becomes a map
of places I've not been
due to blizzard conditions.
january turned to February turned to March ...
winter isolation, I could halt the process
with day trips and tea-soaked visitations, but am content
to do nothing
more than read.

III.  The cookbook
bought at an autumn yard sale,
holds a secret more terrible
than Ortolans en Brochette.
Written in faint pencil across the top
of the Table of Contents page,
a single, slanted, block-letter confession:
I COULD END IT ALL TODAY, IF I WASN"T SUCH A CHICKEN-SHIT.
No more than that.
Until the last page.
There, dead center on the bottom,
is a rusty smudge.  A blob.  A thumbprint.
Had the cooked nicked his finger;
had the scribbler found his courage?

© 2005