House of Cards

“Hello?” I answer.
Telephone silence.
“Hello?” I say again.
I hang up.
Every few afternoons,
during the trysting hour,
the same call.
Ring, ring, but only silence.
My wife and I joke
that it’s a ghost,
but I know better.
It’s someone who wants
to hear our voices.
A past indiscretion,
Mine, maybe hers,
don’t know and don’t want to.
I’m worried that instead of silence,
they’ll speak,
and my wife and I
will never look at each other
the same.

The Summit

Our breath lingers
in front of our faces
as we exhale
the mountain air
and look down
at the powder dusted valley.
Floating in the moment
between dangers passed
and the descent to come,
we laugh at our fear
of slipping and falling,
of being left alone
without the other.

Perfumed Paper

Tin mailboxes line the gravel path,
their wood posts aged a silver gray.
The stones tickle my bare soles
as I look through my box
for the letter you’d said you sent,
but it’s not there, and it’s as if
I’m no longer there either.
Just a shell standing in front
of an empty metal box.


I met a guy once
who claimed he never said,
That there were no endings,
just beginnings.
He would say,
only once, when he met you,
And after that it was,
His banter was a running toilet.
Jiggle the handle
and more came out.
Soon after meeting him,
I taught him about,