Poem 4

An upbeat tune beckons first softly, then louder in the dusk
Little ones yank their mothers' arms away from sinks full of dirty dishes
A staccato of slamming screen doors as eager youngsters race outside
Crumpled bills and dirty quarters plunk onto the truck's metal ledge

Exuberant children peel sticky wrappers off cones and popsicles
Sugary rainbow drops melt into abstract puddles on steaming asphalt
Lying in the cool grass, tossing off flipflops, carefree musings
Waiting to catch fireflies in a glass mason jar

Poem 3

The cafe is buzzing with palpable energy at midday
She sits at a small wrought iron table with a glass top
Beams of sunlight refract through a crystal goblet of wine
And bend off the glass surface in every which way
Lighting the faces of busy strangers bustling down the avenue
In three piece suits, black-rimmed glasses, and shiny shoes
Chatting endlessly on phones, puffing vigorously on smokes
They march like a horde of soldiers with mechanical determination
She opens a worn secondhand novel from the library
The yellowing dog-earred pages are familiar and comforting
She tries to push out all the distractions, so much empty noise
She swirls the wine in her mouth, and it feels warm sliding down her throat
Her tan legs are outstretched on the chair, soaking in the sun's energy
She takes a deep breath of air filled with espresso and fresh pastries
She is completely content in this moment

Poem 2

His grubby finger traced a meandering wood grain on the old park bench.
Preparing to settle in for a frigid evening, he drank a shot of stinging cheap whiskey.
Drunk and sleepy, he was alarmed to see a strange face glaring at him.
"Did I startle you?" asked the feeble well-dressed stranger with a cane.

He did not want conversation, did not want interaction.
He mumbled unintelligibly, averted his eyes, and pretended to be passed out.
"You don't fool me" whispered the upstanding stranger.
"Those tattered dirty clothes are just a costume. Your someone's son."

At that, he tried to scare the stranger. "Get off of my bench, or I'll stick this knife in your neck."
He didn't have a knife, but men like the stranger were always scared of dirty boys with knives.
Men like the stranger only wanted one thing from boys like him in the park.
Surely the stranger would leave now, and he could finally rest.

The stranger delicately reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny silver gun.
He aimed it at the dirty teen and said, "I had a son just like you and a worrying wife once."
"She committed suicide, and now I have no one. This is for your mother"
With that, the stranger shot him in the head.

The dirty teen slumped over, blood dripping down the rails of the park bench,
Making patterns as it mingled with the dark wood grain he'd been tracing moments earlier.
The stranger gingerly put the gun back in his coat and walked away.
He was a new man now, a killer.

Poem 1

Air so thick it swaddles her like a warm blanket
Salty rivulets of sweat rolling down her back
She wipes her arm across her forehead in a haphazard way
Her intention lost in the weight of the moment

The whitewashed back door with the chipped paint swings
Back and forth, crashing against the house, jarring her consciousness
Every time her heart palpitates, and she wrings her palms
She breathes in a long smooth drag of cigarette
And dreams of the blue ocean