Friday, August 03, 2007


The peaches
are never as sweet
as they were
at Mrs. Hahn’s—
among the scents
of coffee and aged upholstery
and dusty metal blinds
and the black rotary phone—
time knew no time.

The hours passed
with the little old German lady;
both of us
carried away
with TV trays and coffee nips—
she in her flowered shift
and I, in my summer youth
and the perfectly ripened peaches
on a little brown shelf.

Convenience Store Poet

My husband says I am his convenience store poet...not a derogatory term really. He likes my poetry because it is usually short and he says he gets his quick fix that and out in a jiff and time to contemplate a little afterwards.
I don't think I really consider myself a poet. I feel like I'm just a dabbler compared to so many others that I read, but then again, don't "they" say that you shouldn't compare yourself to others? Who is "they" anyway? I picture a tall futuristic and reflective building in a huge city somewhere with Large Black Letters that say, "THEY."