This week’s Little Vines.
a guy who fixes things. no cash in his wallet
how good is he at fixing things?
That’s what I thought too.
knife in hand she answered the door
a body on the carpet behind her sprawled and still.
I notice a smell of frying onions.
You’re early, she said. I haven’t quite got dinner ready yet.
The scheming house views the target:
Uncle Ed. Shaky on his legs.
The stair carpet rucks itself up. Trip hazard on the fifth step.
tangents and diversions
untidy divisions slippery scruples
playground recess at the elementary school
the brown hen
writes an ineffective cursive hand
in the dust she lays out her marvelous plot but
her novel is dismissed as chicken scratchings
the stout lady and her stout heart
in residence beneath the
red wool coat with a Peter Pan collar
I’ve come to realize
this chef and his dishes alike are always
pungent and pretending
My aunt’s encouraging manifesto
for a happy married life
she stitched on wedding gift dish towels
a delicate probing guess interrupted:
a sniper shot ruined
by a close-range battery of accusations
No one at home likes my boyfriend but I persist
and I call him to express my love but
the contrary telephone refuses to convey it
the shame flowers
on the shortest stem
it did not take me long to regret what I had done
but she’s message and measuring
all in the same
a vain lady
blinks at her reflection
in the fogged bathroom mirror
adrift in the cosmic fog
you were tape four shock low anyone out there?
garbled code woman
alligatored paint splintered wood
the rain finds the gaps in rotted shingles
the discouraged shed groans out its troubles
to the tap tap beat of drips on a shovel blade
the imposter complains
to the guy on the mental health helpline
no one really knows me
The aspect presents itself –
An amendment to the blueprints that
you wave off, but with a doubtful gesture
The unread hand gives no sign of insight
keeps its secrets close. What good is that hand?
said the palm reader. Ten dollars can make it sing.
I confronted the old man.
He says you know him.
I’m not sure you’ll want to agree.
If I find you a dozen pink-shelled eggs
can you think of a way for them to hatch
a dark red taffeta evening dress?
a postcard wet in the rain
words smeared into purple blue clouds
of beautiful inscrutability
3 thoughts on “Little Vines 12/8/20”
I detect the influence from your love of crime novels in many of these LVs. I love that they read like snippets from thrillers and leave me wondering about the lead up to the snapshot and what might follow on from this point. They are like mini cliffhangers.
You are prolific in your poetry!
These little guys are like candy. You always can do one more, one more, one more and then there is that one more…
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