Poetry: At Ease

His presence, persistent,

I am the curvy wall

under blankets, pressed to black,

but how

these swollen bruises.

He says

I’m his tough little girl

his half-baked boy

his meat

                (c) Rob Goldstein 5/5/1993-02/28/2019

 

 

 

Dolls: A Nice Little House

Peter draws a skinny little boy named Tony and puts him in a cell.

Tony is more like his Mother than his Father.

Tony is more like his Mother than his self.

A doll’s eye fades to black.

Tony’s cell is really a nice little house in a forest of pink trees.

These things sometimes happen:

A garden of morning glories never opens.

A dead bee stabs the sole of your foot.

A giant toad leaps on your chest at midnight:

all the months of August in a row.

Rob Goldstein 1985-2019