Asthma and/or Pilates

Hushed conversations

happen, kitchen-side,

about the merits or

lack there of of of of of of

the messed up eyes

of of the saturated

duckling.

He cannot help it,

or himself...maybe

he's born with it...

maybe his baby dreams

have fractured his sense

of of of of of of of

self worth and

semi-satisfaction.

His demigod status

is on the wane...the

rockstar stature he

harbored in his veins

had held on as long

as it could. Now, he

only sleeps on his side,

otherwise his breath

comes in heaves and

the chills that once

stemmed from his gaze

now grace his vertebrae.

The transition was such

that none but the most

highly trained specialists

could notice the subtle

differences. The color

of of of his cheeks, while

perpetually pallid,

drained languidly, leaving

him pale, pasty, pained.

These were not his

finest years. He would not

tell his grandchildren.

The Din of Silent Sin

As I bask in the glow

of your not knowing,

it warms me,

or warns me,

straight to the tips of my toes.

I never saw this coming...

I'd not be honest,

earnest, maybe,

honest, certainly not.

If I had worded the sentiment

a bit more carefully

it might have sounded more

as if I had meant it.

I did,

but I would still be surprised

if you had believed me.

You left your napkin folded,

draped across the back of your chair.

I was sure you'd return,

but you never did.

I imagine you would say I could have seen it coming,

but I never do, and I would say it was my fault,

disregarding your assertions to the contrary.

I saw it coming, but not from you.

The tales of napkins

are better told through some some other point of view.