Old Bones This morning The smell of bacon Brought me downstairs But before I reached The open kitchen door A voice stopped me My mother telling Her old, arthritic dog, “I know sweetness You’ve been carrying those bones For a long time.” I leaned unseen On the mildewed Window sill Watching her Sip coffee Fry Bacon Her old dog Pressing at her knee.
"Baby Pants" Author: Misha Collins This morning I drive across town for a friend To Justin’s house on a Saturday at 9. His wife yells from under wet hair Belt unbuckled “Justin!” He’s down in the office And I sit—collapse on the new couch Custom made, brown and squarer than a couch should be. Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection. I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now. Can’t put them on, but knows They go On his baby legs. And there I am With my friend’s family On a weekend morning. The mother holds an envelope In her teeth Hoists and struggles To pant her boy. I’m slouching and hot in my vest My blue, down vest. Thinking today was colder than it is. Forgetting that fall in California Is like summer back home. Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys The smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk What have I missed
