Michael

I was not there for the phone call,
not that it matters, since he wouldn't have called me.
We weren't close.
But I still wish I had been there before
Michael's blood got lost.
(It wandered away from his body,
Slicking the tiles. Took a
Wrong turn at the wrist and couldn't get
Back to that left at Albuquerque.)
I don't know how to change anybody's mind,
But in between sweaty moments
I wish I had been there to try,
At the very least try, to keep
Michael from rendering
His own blood homeless, left to
Beg for change
On the bathroom tiles.

What Mardi Gras Did To My Psyche

I am not a baker.
I do not measure.

I admit,
I freely admit,
I cannot control everything.
I can only bring what I have to the pot, stir, and hope.

Once I baked a king cake.
Intoxicated with the success of baking, I drunk-dialed ten people.
It was pastry perfection.
I took pictures.
The process took more than five hours, covered my kitchen in flour and powdered sugar, and involved the agony of discovering that Kroger does not carry purple decorating sugar crystals year round.
Twenty-four hours later, the leftovers were stale.
My kitchen is still in recovery.

I am not a baker.
I do not measure.
I only bring what I have to the pot, stir, and hope.