Table of
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Analog Heart
I trust time from a turquoise travel alarm
powered by an AA battery.
I chill wine in an old GE freezer that doesn’t make ice.
In a rush and a mood to splurge, I hop a yellow cab,
disheartened that a “gig economy” promising driverless cars
drove a bankrupt livery driver to die at his own hands.
I don’t watch movies from a Smart TV that may be watching me.
The music I stream pours from NPR radio, giving airplay
to a mix of young, hungry and brilliant artists.
Sometimes I draft stories on paper, not a blinding screen.
Soft on the eyes and gentle on my low-tech mind.
Amy B. Barone
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Paint Job
I’m foregoing a vacation to paint my late mother’s home.
Maybe fresh coats of bright white will brush away the betrayal,
trauma, loss that inhabited the rooms in her last years.
It’s time to spruce up a place that once shined
with my mother’s spirit and smile. I’ll go with blue in the bedroom;
a light sky blue to bring some of the heavens back inside.
Buttery yellow, like the Easter coat I wore as a child,
for the empty dining room. It once held a mahogany table
that served a young family of five, but the bulky furniture
blocked the terrace light beaming in sunny mornings.
“Al” said he’d even touch up the laundry and closets
where her classy clothes once hung, dissolving stains of rage,
residues of illness that created family seisms.
I’m trusting a palette of pastels for closure and renewal.
Amy B. Barone
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Clematis
Reluctant like a clematis,
I shy from conflict
with a fragile friend.
Purple with passion,
how do I tell a mentor
I can’t bear his demands?
I relish sunshine on my face,
but drift to calming shade.
I once knew how to climb,
kept my reach high on the vine.
Now I mingle with wild artists,
crush the impulse to wilt over rows.
Amy B. Barone__
©Patricia Carragon: Skateboard Kat |
I’ll See You
You appear without warning every few months.
The chemistry’s still there—that supremely disappoints.
I thought I moved on, resolved to challenge myself,
set higher love standards.
You’re still a listless guitar man. I’m the same high-energy
girl-woman looking for a happy ending. But those vibes take over.
It worked better years ago when youth’s path seemed endless.
Wrong turns could be easily fixed. Now I feel stuck, so trapped,
until I open my eyes. What relief! But please go away for good.
I no longer want to see you in my dreams.
Amy B. Barone__
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