at dawn, Chef Armadillo opens his sun-scorched café.
jalapeños jump on the counter like tiny green fireworks.
tortillas twirl as he flips them into sky-high desert specials.
coyotes queue up for his legendary inferno tacos.
Just another average day in the desert....
I pause at last~
a rare celestial event,
like a comet or a clean inbox.
My files stare back,
feral little gremlins
named things like finalFINAL2
and use_this_one_maybe.
I take a breath.
The universe holds still.
Even my husband is impressed.
Then~
a miracle:
I drag one folder
into another folder
and nothing explodes.
Suddenly I’m unstoppable.
A digital filing phoenix.
A desktop deity.
A sorter of chaos.
And all it took
was pausing long enough
to remember
I’m actually in charge
of this digital zoo.
Dear little fly,
You didn't have to die,
But you've made a crucial mistake.
You said that you'll come over.
Then you flew over my sofa
And landed next to my chocolate cake.
Your two small wings
In the air it sings,
Though it's annoying in my ear.
And to no one's surprise,
Your untimely demise
Will become your very worst fear.
When I finally saw you,
I only yelled, "SHOO!"
You thought you had more lives than a cat.
But you landed on the wall
And had a great fall;
For my Giant Fly Swatter went SPLAT!
You just sealed your doom.
And now, with my broom,
You were swept up and laid to rest.
In the garbage you go,
Because you're too slow:
Good-bye, you miserable pest!
The tabby sits back with his cigarette,
smoke curling like a lazy question
over the white cat stretched on a pillow.
He taps his Injecta pen,
studying her pale tail, her unmarked back,
as if imagining stripes is half the art.
Some identities are borrowed, he thinks,
a little ink, a little imitation~
nothing too serious, just a soft suggestion
of who we might become.
He draws slow lines,
letting his own bold markings guide him,
letting admiration slip into mimicry
the way cats copy each other’s confidence.
The white cat doesn’t mind.
She purrs at the attention,
at the small reinvention blooming on her fur,
at the notion that change can be chosen
or simply offered by someone
who believes nature can be nudged.
He leans back, his cigarette glowing,
and wonders if every creature
carries a stripe or two
inked by someone else~
or added just for fun.
She lifts the one-piece blue gym suit toward the camera,
that relic of our girlhood trials~
the stretchy, scratchy, sweat-soaked uniform
we wriggled into like reluctant acrobats.
It hangs from her hand like a captured beast,
its elastic edges still whispering
of locker rooms, loud whistles,
and the long-ago tyranny of mandatory jumping jacks.
Her grin is bright, almost defiant.
“I survived the blue gym suit,” she says,
as if announcing a medal earned through
endurance, embarrassment, and sheer adolescent grit.
And truly~
for every teenage girl who fought that fabric,
who peeled it off after class like a second skin,
who learned early that some battles
are won simply by outlasting them~
it is a lifetime achievement award.
A small, silly triumph.
A shared secret.
A reminder that even the strangest struggles
become stories we hold up proudly
once we’ve lived long enough to laugh.
Apricot pies have been hard to find,
for a while now,
And those one can find are seldom
worth getting to know.
McDonald's no longer have apricot pies,
Despite my many sighs.
Buying apricots and making my own,
But with prices that only make me groan,
As I ask a mate for a loan.
It took me many years,
And lots of tears,
As pie after pie,
Failed to catch my eye,
But I finally found an apricot pie,
That was worth the buy,
Came in a cardboard box of four,
I gave them the maximum score.
As they came in their own tin foil tray,
Which saved the cleaning of an oven tray,
And that's all I have to say,
Except as to the makers of an apricot pie,
that caught my eye,
I will only lie,
To protect my supply.
My little dog has rolled in dirt.
‘It is such a delight!”
But I can tell, it’s wombat poo
And she will smell a fright.
‘The stinkier the better!’,
Is her attitude,
But to bring that smell inside
I think is very rude.
He plops on a lily pad
like it’s a cushy spa chair,
wiggling his knobby green toes
and announcing to no one,
“Must be time for a mani/pedi.”
He uncaps the polish,
a shade called Pink Swampy Chic~
and paints each stubby digit
with the concentration of a surgeon
and the vanity of a bullfrog
who knows he’s a looker
if only in his own mind.
By the time he’s done,
the pond is shimmering
with reflections of ten tiny fuschia toes
and a frog who believes
beauty is mostly attitude
and a steady hand.
Django draws his pistol
and shoots out "D"
from pronunciation of his name.
No one hears the "W"
needed to do real damage
in "Wreck."
"Island" might as well
toss its "S" into the shallows.
No one needs to see it
if it's as quiet as a mouse.
The "K" in "Knight,"
a Mustang that has galloped
too far into the badlands
no one hears it go..."Neigh!"
The one in "Knife"
silently slices and dices
as if through butter.
Not a soul was around
to hear the audible flush
that sent "B" in "Plumber"
down the toilet.
The "G" in "Gnat"
creates no buzz in the air,
and has no sting.
The one in "Gnaw,"
broke a jaw attempting to bite.
Did I mention it has...
no teeth? It's all gums.
Today’s September 2d,
but Sam the squirrel is not impressed~
no brisk air, no acorns dropping,
just heat he can’t digest.
He squints up at the cloudless, furnace sky,
tail drooping in sweaty defeat:
“Where’s pumpkin spice and sweater weather?
Why is Texas still a heat-wave cheat?”
Beside him stands an armadillo,
cool as a desert stone.
He shrugs beneath his armored shell:
“Buddy, this is Texas. We own the heat zone.”
The squirrel fans his face with a wilted leaf,
dramatic as dramatic can be:
“I’m filing a fall-weather complaint!”
The armadillo sighs, “File one for me.”
bandana blazing red,
belt cinched tight with purpose,
the squirrel muttered, “I’m rootin’, tootin’,
and absolutely not sharing my trail mix~
bless your heart for askin’.”
Empty, I look
through the hole…
The cardboard can be wrapped
with satin,
sparkled with glitter,
rolled in paint.
I have to run
to the hall closet,
retrieve
with undies
about my knees.
I grab three,
tear the paper,
empty…
Painted putrid for the polls
your neighbour
nailed to the boards
cheap shots
for forget me nots
crushing kin
and moulding foes
a longtime standing
on the floor
stomping streaming
give me more;
Canada will not be yours.
He sits at his stump-desk
as though the forest appointed him
keeper of its minor truths~
wire-rimmed glasses catching the low light,
plaid bowtie knotted with intention.
The wooden laptop waits,
open to whatever thought
the morning has not yet named.
Coffee steams beside the inkwell,
papers scattered like fallen leaves
he has already begun to translate.
Even the landline, absurd in its presence,
seems to understand
that calls here are rare
but always important.
The uncracked pecans rest beside his papers,
not symbolic, simply present~
a reminder that some work
starts with the smallest,
most ordinary labor of the hands.
He studies the papers strewn around him,
each marked with the faint trace
of earlier attempts at order.
For a moment he simply reads,
letting the work tell him
where to begin.
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