May your body
fit through the eye of a needle.
A jetliner is a strange tomb.
Coral will cover it up eventually.
In an air-pocket a tube of lipstick
and three tiny Seagrams bottles bob and float.
Cigarettes remain in your purse
never to be smoked.
May the ocean currents
empty your pockets of spare change and keys.
Air-travel anxiety blockers gave you
an otherworldly calm.
A bubble escapes your mouth
to slide up your cheek.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Curve Ball
Paul calls at one a. m.
I can’t sleep, he says.
Are you okay?
I thought the virus would be over.
Like a flash flood from a storm
that tears away a few shingles.
We switch from phones
to FaceTime.
A spoon barely projects out of
a carton of ice cream.
He wears his Cubs cap in bed.
His eyes dart to and from the camera.
I needed to be sure of you.
I sent a check for the fifty bucks I owe you.
This goes on for an hour.
I fix a snack of cheese and crackers.
I pour a glass of almond milk.
I get seven words in edgewise.
After Paul hangs up I fall back to sleep,
dream us playing catch.
A green baseball with little red prongs
that sticks to our fingers for the filthiest curve ball.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 