No Matter How Hungry

She sees me glance at the kitchen floor,
shrugs her shoulders
and says, “It has character…

tells a story.”

The seven inch slash of marinara
speaks of pizza abuse,
spaghetti flinging or

some Mafioso mystery.

Crumbs leave a trail
so disturbed by foot traffic
that neither origin or destination

can be tracked.

Splots dot the vinyl floor
in denominations of dimes, pennies,
nickels, quarters, and,

still crawling, intergalactic currency.

Mainly, the floor cries out,
“If it falls jelly side down,
don’t pick it up
to eat it.

You May Recall

Often late in July but,
always in August,

cicadas sang.

Dogday cicadas lullabyed,
then awakened me,

usually, within the same hour.

Like everything repeated,
their song’s rise and fall,

grows familiar.

When that happens,
you notice them about as often

as you think about breathing.

You brush away a silent skeleton,
realize the song has stopped,

and night is as empty as a cicada’s shell.

Someday, your mind may brush against
a rough, frail memory and you may recall,
I once sang for you.