Forks

This poem made me laugh when I read it back. An ode to the other fork lickers out there. I hope I am not alone.

I like the taste of polished metal forks imprinting my tongue with its tines.
That is why I licked the fork in the road that spread before me.
Hard metal has a way of opening your eyes to the last supper.
He never understood my desire to lick forks.
His desire was to stab.
But, I play nicely with forks.
It is the only way to eat cake.

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Haiku Sandwich

Growing up meant a no-line on the volume knob where you are not allowed to go past because of a wall separating us from the neighbors. It meant calls about our cooking smells and muddy soccer shoes being tied to trees.

Our house is music.
Each room thumps with vibrancy.
Love makes lots of noise.

Now we have a house where we can play music above the no-line. Love isn’t quiet. It hollers back at you, saying, “I love this song. Turn it up.”