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Scrambled Eggs and Wine

My mother’s eyes were hazel,

gray on the days 

when there were pains,

Blue on the days she giggled, green 

in times she stewed

in the juices she made,

And admitted 

to.

I’m a mess. 

But I love you just the same.

They all look at you 

when you come in the room.

You light it up 

She'd say,

Your smile, your eyes, 

They all look at you.

I glance around 

And see no one's gaze,

Just an afternoon lunch

Of scrambled eggs, white wine, 

Side of bacon, and toast. 

They served breakfast all day.

The restaurant dim, but sunny bright. 

Comfortable hues, soft fabrics, 

Familiar walls and table linen. 

You are so beautiful,  

She’d tell me, and I smiled,

Thanks, mom, not believing.

Her eyes were red most days, 

Watery, and 'l'm a mess' colored. 

Missing

Missing

I’m missing 

Scrambled eggs and wine.

So Familiar 

Like holding my own hand, 

-so familiar.

Fingers entwined,

-like a stem of wine.

Tipped to your tongue,

-I hold it there.

Against those lips,

-Our fingers 

Entwined. 

I could,

-work on these lines. 

They could,

-become something more.  

They could

-become something less. 

Yet, they could

stand

now,

As 

They are.

As they

were.

A 

moment,

In

 time.

Nothing 

more.

Nothing 

  less.

paper mill warrior

Leo worked in a papermill

outside of Portland.

The east coast one.

A portrait of the man

written by a man 

that could have a portrait 

written of him,

Someday.

But today he told us of 

Leo

and rolls and rolls of paper 

to the inside horizon.

Year and Years Days and Days

Driving down a road so many times

If it were dirt, instead of

Pavement,

the ruts would rub

the underside of the carriage of the car or wagon

(or buns of the warrior worker as he walked)

But he drove

So no one saw

the path worn through the years

On the asphalt.

There should be a path 

After 30 years.

31 years to be closer to exact, that

I myself drove the pavement.

Not to  paper, but to work

I thought a privilege to do,

Until the words redundant

Non income producing

Position

They put me in became

well

redundant.

Filled easily by keepers,

of books,

Who pushed the numbers around

to look like incomes.

No more pavement worn job 

No party cake

To say good bye

Just a road I don't go down

Anymore.