She didn’t always drink her coffee black.
The milk would spill in, staining the drink
until the perfect hue was achieved
and she’d think what her mother used to think.
“You are always right where you need to be.”
And she’d watch a sugar cube float around
for a few minutes, until the bronze sea
took it away. And her silk dressing gown
trickled past her body just as her new
buyer came to the door. She took one sip
and tried not to let her mascara strew
or even let the mug smear at her lips.
She poured everything down the kitchen sink
and tried to forget what her mother might think.

I've written you a letter and I'll send it soon.
It's two pages, twice folded and slipped
into an off-white envelope
where I've licked the back flap
and pressed it down firmly.

Your location is scribbled on the front,
centered almost perfectly
and my address sits top left
just in case your house is no longer there
and the postman decides to return to sender.

However, the corners are beginning to fray
and a small coffee stain
curves around one side,
looping over the place
where a stamp should be.

Your name is starting to fade
and I'm not sure if the 6 in your address
is a 6 at all. So maybe the postman
will just lose it in a sea of forgotten paper
and one day you’ll swim over to it.

I would like you to read the letter I've written,
but the idea behind a message in a bottle
only works if you toss the **** thing overboard.
And the only time I ever told you I loved you
is collecting dust inside my desk.

She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.

Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.

Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.

With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.

And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.

The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.

An elephant graveyard
rests, etched on my TV
as I listen to the howl
echoing from outside
the window. Grabbing
my rifle filled with pellets
I stride outside to face it.

Adrenaline clouds my vision
as this monster of an animal,
this beast of a creature
glares at me. With his flesh
thirsty fangs, drooling
with spit. Ready to rip
me apart and bury the bones.
It growls with want
as it shakes the sick dust
from its mangy coat.
Hair hanging off his skin
like the dead clothing
from its past prey.
Cracking my petrified bones
I fall to my knee
and pump after pump
I prepare my weapon.
With fingers dancing their way
to the ready trigger, I hold
my aim. Steady. Breathing.
Pull. I release my breath
as the gun exhales a shot
into the body of the beast.

A cry shoots out
from the pounding heart
of this whimpering animal.
And as I watch
with regret tumbling
down my cheek. The dog
stumbles off
into the shadowing forest
so that I will never
shoot it again.

I have never seen
The slumber of any fish
Nor has one seen mine