3 Doors, Closed

Door #1

When you smash the pots I made for you,
put the shards tip up in the dirt, so they
look like the sails of small boats or
sharks’ teeth in a ravaging maw.

Arrange them in a way that you’ll never
see the pieces as they originally were,
an assembled whole where roots struck
bottom but pushed stems to air and light.

Door #2

If we’re too stiff to dance,
to move without arms
pinioned to priorities
and everyone on our Friends list,
then what the fuck are we doing with what time we have?

Door #3

In the end, you left me with nothing but
          an unsigned card

                     molding in the drawer,

mawkish tropes, doggerel, words you
         scanned and assumed
                      held weight or meaning

(or at least might mean more to me than you).

As days passed, memory decayed in dirt,
         too late for burial,
                     the card's sentiments

an afterthought with a very short shelf-life.