Our daughter wanted to build a tiny house.
We laughed our rears off, showering her with hoots.
She had more clothes than sixteen other women.
Where will she put two thousand boots?
Her furniture is oversized, her closets are stuffed.
A tiny house? A tiny house? We laughed and cried.
I can do it, she said, her voice was stiff and gruffed.
Not if you tried, we said. Not if you tried!
She had it built but nothing fit, maybe her cat.
So she had them redesign the front, it is nice.
A cozy, warm place for her silly cat to take a rat.
A tiny house? We laughed more than thrice.
Categories:
gruffed, house,
Form: Rhyme
I miss the way his fingers spin
Like the daisy colored spool
Off the kitchen table
He sings in a gruffed tone
Below my ears
Injecting that beauty
Into my neck
He's not some brooded lost soul
If anything he's the sun
Shining through the bleached curtains
Of a film noir hotel
Shedding some secret
No one told me
I love you
And not the mirror you dress in
Its those moments without
That I remember.
Categories:
gruffed, art
Form: Free verse