biscuits

the oven burns off butter
or a blackened hunk of cheese.
you saunter in your apron,
laughing on bended knees.

the cherries on the oven mitts
have surely seen better days
but just like the rest of us
they have been worn
by your warming ways.

you smile gratefully as I whine over iced coffee
about my lack of compelling affairs.
because you have witnessed the tornados
once I've given in to wanting stares.

the kitchen is too hot.
my story is an exposed nerve.
still, you listen
grab the jam,
and biscuits
and wait for me to serve.

not forever

not forever

they said it would pass
but they didn't say
it would happen fast.

go on and cry now,
you'll feel better later
is what they told me
but they didn't say
how long it would actually be.

they said the pain would subside.
and this time they were right.
they said if we press our noses on the glass
and tightly shut our eyes
before we know it we will have arrived.

but I don't always hear them
or love what they say.
and I know now all the shit
doesn't just go away.
so I sleep
soundly even though I have felt better
at least I believe that now
is not forever.