If I had brushes and a canvas
I'd paint it

a gathering
soiree or better yet

a ticker tape
parade

a celebration
of one's life well lived

and deserving of such
reverie

whit howland © 2020

Steam rises
from a sweetened

deal

and a once
bitter cup of coffee

now swirling
with Dorsett cream

we (you and I)

are talking about
coffee

we swear

it's so delicious
or shall we say

delectable

whit howland © 2020

Oh, infinitely beautiful girl
you are not alone

she wrote with
scarlet lipstick on her mirror

But words alone
don't
change hearts

and she was infinitely
unhappy

cursed

doomed

All the boys and men
said yes
to her

but her brother still
said no

my favorite thing in the world,
at this moment anyway,
is the way a room feels
when a candle goes out.

i'm learning to converge like that.
with what,
i don't really know.

call it lighting lanterns in foggy streets.
call it escapism.
call it industry.

i call it food on the table.

There is a stirring
      when one sees with clarity
            what lies ahead --

Edges sharpen, and
      the air pressure drops.
            Trees rustle where
                   there is no breeze;

A wind chime tinkles
      in a desolate place
            and it feels like
                  the end of time--

This is my body
I think
You see some days I am not sure
Because it's covered in opinions and handprints
That do not belong to me
And they are dripping all over this better life I am trying to build

- Was this supposed to be winning?

Could we possibly just stop all of this
and melt like we're supposed to?
Self is a terrified little kid crying alone in the woods.

"Help" written with a finger
on a ***** windshield.