An hour into work I forget I got up from bed
at all, how the cold fir floor was a shock,
that the kettle took too long to warm.
I’m sure I touched the curve of my wife’s back
before I left, certain she rolled over, reached
in the dark for my face.

I remember the frost, how my car wouldn’t start
then coughed down Milwaukee Ave through lights
that blinked yellow this early.

Now, finished cleaning the piss stalls, set to mop
the bar where last night’s smoke still hangs,
all I can think about is Gilbert in the ice cream –
his weakness, he said when I caught him
sneaking it once, too hard for him to deny
the tall vanilla drum just beneath the sinks.

Smiling at me elbow deep, I know the morning
can only go three ways. The version where I rush him
to the ER, his fourth diabetic shock in a month.
The one where our boss walks in, fires him
on the spot because he warned him last time
about the ice cream. Or the one we actually get to,

where I call Gilbert over to the lunch I forgot
I brought, three cuts of pizza, a slice of apple pie,
tell him to scoop out two bowls but make it quick,
then we split to dry storage, sit with our food
and the needle he needs to take, laugh
about how sweet life is.

(special thanks to Read Write Poem prompt #69)

This is an example of a title that won’t go away. I’ve been trying to write a poem to attach to it for six years. Here’s the latest stab

Roberta liked to say
she was my black granny,
sixty-eight
with two bum knees
no better than her sons,
one in prison,
one on his way.

we cleaned a place
called the Pier
where she’d eaten
once in fifteen years.
surf and turf,
hundred dollar wines,
desserts they flame
at your table.

Roberta said
the steak was dry,
didn’t drink
and sweets
would kill her

without a hint
of blue collar pride
so many
check-to-check janitors,
people like us,
liked to share
over smokes.

her joys were simple,
like how on a good month
when bills went out
on time
she’d go to the sausage house
next door
and buy ends meat,

the stuff at the end
of cured tubes
they didn’t otherwise sell,
the same batch
the rich folk ate,
just stuck at the ends
and nothing wrong
with it.

a few pounds
in her bag,
she’d bring sandwiches
for a week
that we’d eat on break,
talk about
how good life was.