Collector

Caught
with my fingers
in my mouth,
I see you are here
to repossess Spring
for non-payment
for services rendered.

Once my mouth
is free of fingers,
I show you
the mailed check stub
but that holds
no water
with you.
And you quote
a line in Latin
from Ecclesiastes.

You suggest
I go back to eating
the scraps
that got me
through Winter.
You say I owe you
for the honey
I just licked
from my fingers.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

First Day Of Spring

I stand behind you,
feel the muscled knots and knobs between your shoulder blades,
press painful buttons, Ohs escaping
into this room scored in daylight,
a lilac hue from the cobalt vase,
your book muffled by the closed cover,
three cookies left in Tupperware
that knew full this morning.

My eyes shut so my thumbs can see
the muscles’ mysterious tethers, linchpins,
to detangle fibers from spasms.

Where once there were dead sticks and stems,
overturned earth knows no rows
or floral signposts just yet.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney