Conversational Catnip

We the dearly divided
celebrate our birthright
to a vigorous Indian summer
sticklers for the paraphrased
when seeing a man about a horse.

The remnants of a hurricane
that killed dozens
and decimated islands
in the Caribbean
reaches the Atlantic Northeast
giving us a pleasant breeze
for perfect working weather
where the crane cable swings
and the treetops sway
and it still takes a diamond
to cut one.

Sweet tea tastes like diabetes
and a failed Confederacy.
There are only so many bridges.

The Danger of Dealing in Absolutes

Seven unlucky years ago
marks the last time
I stayed at a dirty motel
in a New England state.
Our love was on the lam
while were on our way to Maine
and stopped to sleep in Vermont
just shy of New Hampshire.
The bottle of Montepulciano we split
enhanced a joke we'd made on the highway
where lyrics from the songs she'd picked
didn't yet resonate.
She snapped a shot of us laughing
in those yellowed sheets
that she'd later start to paint
though we didn't outlast the canvas.

Mount Washington was closed for the season
when we passed the entrance the next day
so I never got one of those bumper stickers
to put on the back of my truck.
The sex that had us
in that Bar Harbor bed & breakfast
was more out of habit than love
but I've learned three lessons
since those more patient days:

Shotguns are for times of peace
rifles are for times of war
and mysterious cigarette holes
in cheap, rented bedding
are made by men years later
as they finally understand
the difference.

Moonstone

And then 

in the morning

when I focus 

to flip our eggs

since that's how 

she wanted them

I tell her 

she's getting too close

for the first time 

justified

in saying so.

Homewreckers Disguised as Amateur Phlebotomists

She insists on turning
the light on for me--
overhead, how I hate it--
though the sun won't rise
for another two hours, if ever.
There it is in white watercolor:
hers and mine;
salt from both bodies.

In her too bright bathroom
I notice that I've forgotten
my bachelor bag of toiletries.
Months of work fatigue
have knocked me off
the trails I once knew so well
and what was required to take them.

A ghost current from Saturday prior
jolts through my skull
like her godforsaken light bulbs
that show all nicks and flaws.
The poor, beady eyed sot
at the end of the bar
with two pointless pints
in hands bound only for himself
stared blankly through last call martyrs
in search of happy hour philosophers
and willing philanthropists long gone.
His dangerous disbelief in divine misfortune
spewed forth across the oak
as even I felt pity for him
over ever having taken home
a strong six at his highest.
I tipped my standard bill and left.

The same subtle genius
who first insisted that a servant
take his place among the ranks
deemed needed for warfare
by the crown
must've also invented the brilliant evasion
of sending a check in lieu of attendance
at a wedding for which an invitation came early.

I hear her packing a poorly insulated lunchbox
with more food than I'll be able to eat in a day
and reach for the toothbrush
standing in the sinkside mug.
I think through the first few strokes,
My mouth's been worse places than this.

Do any Catholics still go to confession?
If so, do they feel that it works?