THE CITY IS A BEEHIVE

The city is a spillt
canister of legos
stretching out & out
etched by rivers
large enough to
accommodate
boats
impressive bridges.

Disregard the concrete.
Pay no mind to the
curdling of liquids
after it rains.
Look up to the
massive sky
where stale sounds
and stifled air
find release.

The city is a beehive
that alarms us
when we think:
“Gosh, we made this
with hands, this
hectic, full of
what-ifs
place.”

Its swarms of people
provide us with a
certain nectar,

but you’ll get sick
of the taste
if you never leave.

THE FIELD BELOW

I’m sitting at the glass balcony
and the sky
is filling high tide
with copper
and lilacs.

Small kids wear blue
oversized football helmets
and run in synchronized patterns
in the field below.

Now they hold hands,
sweat caught in eyelashes
(I’m guessing).

They jump and spin
and can’t stand still.

1234

{BECAUSE} IT FEELS SO GOOD

THREE DAYS
without heartburn!

it’s almost worth having it

just because             {not having it}        feels so good

(an accidental poem by Andy.)

HEART

Fresh delicacies, London.

BECAUSE THEY’D GET TOO ‘SOFT’

An accidental poem from this article.

I’ve come to believe
that a lot of people
equate

comfort
with
complacency,

calmness
with laziness.

If you’re happy,
you’re not
working         hard       enough.

You’ve stopped
striving.

comfort

Wildwood, New Jersey

VOLUNTARY GOODBYE

Sweeping up the last traces
of you, just now, I pulled
out the furniture to find
stray tufts of fur in levitating
pompoms behind the end
table and the curtains.

This would be how I say
goodbye and a what voluntary
goodbye it was. Goodbye,
cat. See you later, maybe,
cat. Each sweeping motion,
casting you further away.

Like a throw pillow, you
adorned my bed. You spent
hours sinking claws into the
green blanket that I let you
take with you.

Wondered and waffled, I
did, about whether to keep
you and your perfectly spotted
coat.

The phrase “I’m just not a
cat person” becoming synonymous
with “I’m just a bad person.”

Should I even consider having
children if I can’t even keep
a cat? Just a moment, now,
it’s not nearly as simple as
that.

I just swept last week, cat. Yet,
your fur accumulates like the
slowest snowstorm. I brush
the floor with the white plastic
bristles, collecting all I have
left of you and contemplating
my voluntary goodbye.

With a jingle and a buzz,
my phone interjects: a photo
of you, snuggled up with some
stranger on a plush couch with
the green blanket.

Look at you, cat. You’re already
planting new snowflake pompoms
behind curtains, I bet.

cat