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sit across the table from an old man

who you refer to as grandpa,

though you question the validity of that

endearment. 

mirrors sitting next to you,

and at the other side of the table,

talking to one another about

sports teams and in-laws.

the vagueness of this conversation

warms you up like a baby blanket,

because this is familiar.

We share DNA, 

except for the replacement grandma;

we share looks that judge 

how successful we are.

We share the bill.

And we share that same

unsatisfied smile

as the waiter calls out

cheese…

-NM

So many writings on raindrops,
but they’re all exactly right!
I don’t know what they do, or say, or play a part in, but it’s never my own.
HERE -aquí-
peddling through holes that extend my mortal layer up into these drops of essential life
each one plays a different note on my skin, just as it should.
Before long, I am covered in tunes. I can’t even tell you what I sound like!
But here is my main question—
why do we ever take off our wet clothes?

LATE november, my son

—-
One fog, one infinite sky that I count on as a jacket (though it always seems to appoint-dis)
Does not show me sun, my son. I guess I have not given birth, but if I may, make my own.
With a few crayons (yellows, oranges, reds, even VIOLET red. daring) I began to create you, and you warmed my hands. Thanks.
Now,
I will be sure to set you on top of all of the others.
Not to create hierarchy. I’m simply trying to cut back on my electricity bill.