he rinsed both
hands in the
sink,

watching the soil spiral down
a drain, corroded
and clogged

he
scrubbed,

marveled that his
nails came
so clean

after living neck
deep.

on your humble
hands

i feel years
of toil,

still trembling from
from demands

of men who don’t know
sand from
soil.

parking
lots,

idling more,

ducking
shots-

hit the deck
or play
dead,

parking
lots..

overfed
slots.

now available: guts of a tree (free of charge)

“cracks of forest twigs on dusk casting storm,

magnifying threats of harm.

held up in

arms.”

a (insert own adjective) collection of free verse poems available free of cost as word document and/or

e-book:

or here:

my thank you, in roses on fire.

stay well.. inspired.

hands in the garden