Stafford Challenge. 09/12/2026

Morning walk.

Wet boots left near the door,

my coat slung across the shower bar.

I run a towel through my hair.

I no longer miss having to towel off

all 120 pounds of Lab Zeus.

It has been 20 years

since he muzzled-jabbed me awake.

 

The tea kettle isn’t going to whistle.

Instead, there will be a quiet pop.

If anyone else lived here, they would appreciate that

 

almost as much as I do. The quiet.

The lap blanket. The chenille robe. Slippers.

Coffee and another good book,

the news in the background

like an underscore in a parody,

ads for an updated iPhone, smart watches,

and bundled insurance.

Stafford Challenge. 9/11/2026

Brash. Unwanted. Like timpani

next to one’s head during sleep.

I mute the television volume, avert my eyes

until I’m certain the news has moved on.

Today, another day I won’t talk with family or friends.

I have never looked closely enough

at their ranklement, brewing like daily coffee.

Stafford Challenge. 9/10/2026

 4 a.m. again

and I don’t even lift the curtains.

No visible stars, just streetlamps—

one street framed as the world

lined with cars, shadows

in harsh angles,

last night’s leaves on the ground

and sometimes a person

who should be home in bed—

the tension of their presence.

Impossible to Fold

6/14/2026 (c) 

 I once tried to recycle newspaper

adding dried flowers

and pink cardstock.

Hours.

It took hours to soak, to beat

with a hand mixer.

Then  pouring and shaking the mush

over a framed screen

like panning for gold.

Days to dry.

I tried heating the mash with a blow-dryer

and then in the oven—

tinged the petals

and at last,

a heavy texture

that refused the ink,

impossible to fold,

tampered paper that lost all

it’s paper essence.

 

Less Than

 5/11/26 (c)

Measuring my worth in cups

is not as tangible as it first seemed.

I use a dry cup for the bones,

a liquid cup for the blood,

measuring spoons for eyes and teeth.

I think I am accurate.

Discrepancies pile up.

The sum of my parts

is less than the whole

 

All my better parts are weightless

and lack the volume to measure.

I need to find a scale I cannot tip.

To Fume

 5/11/26 (c) 

Sometimes I set a fire

just to set a fire.

I take someone’s lunch

from the community fridge

eat it at my desk.

When the notes go up

to quit stealing lunches—

I tape trolling signs beneath it—

It wasn’t that tasty anyway.

 

I keep that part of my life

anonymous.

I need fellow warriors

to fight beside me.

It’s a thrill—

to flex, to fume,

to throw opinions around—

what needs to change,

who has to go.

Alone, I am just cruel.

Together, we call it justice.

Insomnia (9 of Swords)

 5/11/26 (c) 

I draw a hot bath.

Turn screens off.

Essential oil in the diffuser.

Soft jazz in the background.

 

Returning to a good book,

I wait for my mind

to loosen its teeth.

 

The only thing missing

is a black cat’s company.