Poem #611

she wrote everything in cursive
on every piece of paper she got
in the dust of the window of her mom’s SUV
on the shower door during her bath time
because she learned how to in school
“third graders learn cursive!” she’d exclaimed
she wrote with curvy lines and dots
her favorite pen was a sparkly blue gel pen
but she’d write with anything
she kept glittery notebooks of her thoughts
and any sign she read
Verdugo, Victory, Magnolia, Alameda
then she got a laptop in sixth grade
and she stopped writing in cursive
but she still wrote everything
tapping away at her keys
coloring the fonts with her favorite blue
she loved Cambria
she typed science words and historical names
Jefferson, Edison, Roosevelt, Washington
it wasn’t the cursive she had loved
it was the words

Poem #604

first drizzle of the season
clouds crowd the dark sky
accountant walks her neighborhood
enveloped in street lamp light
cold bites her skin pleasantly
she’s thinking of numbers
old man with cigar sits
on the edge of a red brick planter
the smell of the smoke lingers
“what kind of cigar is that?” she asks
“please don’t smoke, honey,” he responds
she takes the obtuse path around him
she frowns and goes home
her house is much too warm