Small Rain

It spits
as it sings
of spring. She could start

the season over. Forget
the loud neighbor’s death
threats (sarcastic or not),

a father’s descent
into absolute silence,
a coworker’s suicide

that stings
the skin of all who knew
of him

but never got to know
who he was.

No Back Pocket

She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen

to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill

onto the round table with change.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Get any closer to the mouth
piece could kill you. The bitch

in me steps outside
the invisible line I draw

each morning. I wasn’t paying
attention. Never thought I could

turn anything out. But fear
and pride conspire to plot

a demise—not mine. Not a suicide
left in the garden.