I wrote a woman
a poem about forgetting
my pants before work.

I adjust my seat,
refill my drink and popcorn,
and watch the drama.

Sometimes there are days
when the best you can manage
is more gray than good.

Perhaps those children
conceived on sleepless nights will
carry that karma.

Just how many scars
that were cut into my soul
are your handiwork?

I whisper, “Goodbye”,
close every door behind me,
and burn the house down.

Love is the ghost of
a smile, kiss, or warm embrace
echoing within.

Drops of spring weather
riddle the winter landscape –
a teasing promise.