The purple orchid
Which came into my house
As a gift

Has been teaching me
A few things

When I take good care
It thrives

And when I keep busy
Doing other chores

Forgetting to put that
Ice cube in the ***
So that it keeps moist

The orchid becomes sad
And it's leaves wither

I have to constantly
Read it to know
How it is keeping.

And that is what
Happens all around me
With all those
Whom I care for!

March, meek, bends its head
half-heartedly mumbles "I'm back"
with an admirably early gust of
mild spring wind
and I wish for it to pass
until summer can take grasp
and the grey clouds spread to reveal
the sky bluer than I have ever seen before

'Round back alleys, and down black side streets
sits [laying] newspaper mattresses, and makeshift houses with no heat.

Just a step, or two, from Big City Lights, (a rolling neon technicolor wasteland),
lives the bottom tip of the bottle, and a short supply of all, but upturned hands.

Two streets over, over-the-top sparkle of high heels, and scantly draped dresses.
Down here, dweller's fever's rush down from old minded babe's spiralings of deep depression.  

The language most commonly spoken is lies, but it's not much different up hill.
What's not translatable from "bag," "spliff," or "pill," can be easily related with "shot," "bottle," or "bill."

I find myself fluent, a traveled veteran of countrysides,
adjusting to the headache of the city's heart, but unwilling to take the full ride.

I had a home
and I hid a
secret in the floor
boards. I would
like to say I was
bored but I know I
was only lonely and
tired of drinking. If
you can hide a
body in a closet—
you can hide a
memory under the
bed. I like to think
I did not mean for it
to be this way.
But now, his
skin has fallen and
he is a skeleton in
my closet and his mem-
ories have spawned a
monster under my bed.
I like to think I
did not mean for it
to be this way.
I am hoping my
husband never
taps on the walls.
They will
tap back.