When Wednesday Walks Home

I know I’m a loner
with a fine bottle cap collection.
And I know you call me honey
and trespass anytime you like.
But when Wednesday walks home
tousled like a young pilgrim
I could do her laundry.
Bake pies just to keep the heavy
scent of pastry in the room.
She has as good to me as an extra sandwich,
a Chilean stamp with fountains
and look, Neruda in the distance.

Circling

The narrator knowing the spinning
of the world appeared to know that we’d been lacking
a boyfriend on the rebound, a chance to memorialize
or address the issues in a rather open
imagining than between a rotating
of dampened sun screened principalities.
The interpretation circles back to an
unexpected monsoon. Slowly a repetition builds.
A monsoon kisses the little homes of children.
This is the point when someone turns off the projector
and that’ll stop the circling. But it rains repeatedly
in torrents over the roofs and leaves, over
the children’s homes and turning
the fish who breath periodically
above the stream’s smooth boulders.

There is a moment while the character in the circle circles.