Seven of Cups

They were Georgia boots,

Comfort Core.

No comfort left in that label now.

The soles gone to hell,

inlay peeled like burnt skin

on a summer drunk.

He used to wear 'em

to the docks—

not for the job

but to look like he had one.

Said the boots gave him posture

even when he had no spine.

The bench was his confessional.

"Seven cups," he muttered once,

“they all looked good

in the morning fog."

Money.

A woman who called him “baby.”

A trailer with a flag and a fridge

full of cheap beer.

A crappy transistor radio

always tuned to the same static.

He liked the noise more than silence—

said silence reminded him

of his old man’s fists

and the day he slammed the door

and never came back.

She came like the others—

eyes like storm warnings,

barefoot in winter,

mouth full of someone else’s songs.

He loved her the way

you love a fire:

too close,

too long,

burned down to bone.

Every choice
a ghost

that kissed his cheek

and walked off with his wallet.

He died right there,

on the bench that knew his weight,

where the pigeons ignored him

and the cops didn’t bother.


Boots side by side,

one insole flopped out

like a tired tongue.

A half-smoked cigarette still warm

in the groove of the slats.

No note. No name.

Just a man who picked

the wrong cup

too many times.

Portland, Maine

The wolf should've snapped her neck.
The deer should've bolted.
hat's the law, right?
Kill or run.
How it's supposed to be.
How it always was.

But here they are -
him in a secondhand suit
smelling like old rain and bad decisions,
her draped in a dress made of soft mistakes.

He's thinking,
another kill won't fix the hunger.
She's thinking,
another escape won't fix the fear.

And outside the glass,
the world hums along,
hungry for blood,
hungry for failure,
hungry for the beautiful ruin of it all.

They lean into each other
like broken doors swinging on the last hinge,
not lovers,
not saviors,
just two things too tired to keep lying.

The world wants them to hate,
to run,
to tear each other apart.

What they do instead -
this slow, brutal, stupid tenderness -
is the worst kind of rebellion.

The glass between them and the street
is spidered with cracks -
each one a little white lie the world told,
each one a rule they broke.

He's melting at the edges now,
becoming a man, becoming a memory,
becoming something the wolf was never meant to be.

She shimmers,
not prey anymore,
not even real maybe,
just some miracle walking
through the wreckage.

Sirens smear across the sky,
time drips down the walls,
and still they sit -
choosing each other in a world that stopped believing.

This is what survival looks like sometimes:
not teeth,
not speed,
but a hand on a shoulder,
a weight leaned into,
a promise made with nothing but breath.

and they sit shoulder to shoulder,
defying the ugly machines that built them,
trading the last thing that matters:
the stupid, beautiful, suicidal act
of choosing tenderness
when nothing else makes sense.

Lenox, Massachusetts

I pass him every morning
on my way to the bus—
the skeleton with wings,
painted crooked on the bodega wall.
At first, he made me uneasy.
Too bold, too broken,
arms raised like he knew something
I didn’t want to hear.

The words above his head—
I’M NO LONGER BROKEN—
felt like a dare.
Who says that out loud?

But weeks turned into months,
and somehow
I started looking for him.
On gray days
his grin felt like defiance.
On warm mornings
the light hit just right,
like he was lit from the inside.

People tagged around him,
but no one painted over.
Not once.

I don’t believe in miracles,
but I believe in
what you get used to,
what grows on you,
what begins to speak
without ever moving its lips.

These days,
I nod to him—
a small, silent thing.
Not because I understand,
but because I think
he sees me, too.

New York City

The boardwalk ends like a pension plan
that stopped showing up.
A sign says area closed,
but the ocean never followed rules.

Planks slump like ex-employees
waiting for purpose to call back.
Shadows come and go—
no clock, no punchline, just habit.

They called it retirement—
a view, some quiet, the slow reward.
But it feels more like a layoff
nobody bothered to announce.

No memos, no coffee, no names left to forget.
Just wind filing its own report.
I lean on the rail, light fading.
So this is what all the meetings were for.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

There it hangs like it forgot something,
like maybe it left its body behind—
too clean, too soft, too damn dreamy
for this busted room and crooked light.

Bella wore it drunk, barefoot, laughing
through the wreckage of her last good thought.
Said she’d marry a trumpet player.
She didn’t. She left it on a fire escape.

Luna danced in it once—
no shoes, no god, just rain.
She drowned in her bathtub,
water humming hymns, dress breathing.

And Zoe? Zoe wore it to the trial,
eyes full of dust from forgotten dreams.
She left it spinning on a motel fan,
a slow ghost orbiting her exit wound.

The cleaning lady touches it with gloves,
crosses herself, whispers to the floor.
She’s seen blood come out of tile grout—
but never anything that shrieks like this.

No one claims it now, while
it drapes over air like it’s trying to disappear.
Some say it hums when no one’s near,
a lullaby with teeth behind the silk.

Gardiner, Maine

I’m Box #8, red, fabulous, and slightly tilted.

Don’t judge—I’ve held more secrets than your therapist.

The orange one’s always anxious—

thinks rain is a government experiment.

Yellow believes he’s a portal to the insect realm.

Keeps whispering “The beetle king will return.”

Green meditates. Sends vibes to the squirrels.

We don’t ask what’s in his letters. 

Blue gets love notes. Every. Single. Day.

Claims it's a curse. We think he likes it.

Purple? Full-on drama. Tarot cards, glitter,

once screamed because someone mailed a potato.

We’ve seen it all—

breakup letters sealed with glitter tears,

late bills folded like apologies,

invitations no one answered.


Still, we hold space.

For hope. 
For coupons.

For the next peculiar thing you’ll send.

We’re not just mailboxes. We’re personalities with hinges.

We hold the town’s gossip, taxes, dreams, and junk.

We’ve seen things. Heard things.

Now please—lift gently. No one likes a slam.

Peaks Island, Maine

It’s a Zanzibar Hyperbole!

she exclaimed 
through a mouthful of guacamole and chips.

I didn’t understand, nor did I ask.

She pointed toward the restroom,

where Marilyn smiled with impossible confidence,

eternally turning,

as if beauty could pause the world mid-sentence.

The mirror caught her twice—

realer in reflection than in art,

with soap and hygiene notices

framing glamour like a government-issued dream.

Heated by the

radiance of her face

brimming with mischief and enchantment, 
I could not love her more.

Rockland, Maine

Bardo dreams
sealed in plastic cocoons,
hovering above the frozen earth,
half-formed, neither here nor gone.

Their hulls stretch against shrink-wrap skin,

ghostly outlines of a season past,

suspended between water and sky,

adrift in winter’s forgotten light.

A scaffold of waiting,

a silence thick as frozen tides,

where memory curls like vapor,

lost between longing and return.

No wake, no passage,

only the wind’s slow hands

pressing whispers into plastic,

holding time in absent motion.

Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts

We walked through that tunnel again last night. 
Water up to our ankles, the smell of something old. 
Graffiti on the walls—names, dates, symbols we couldn't read. 
You said it felt like a dream you wouldn’t tell me.

The rope still hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. 
I wondered who put it there, and why. 
Our reflections in the water looked back at us, distorted, 
like strangers we have become.

Beyond the tunnel, the street lights flickered. 
We stood there, listening to the distant hum. 
I wanted to say something, but the words— 
they just weren't there.

The distance between us stretched like the tunnel itself, 
longer than before, heavier than silence. 
We turned around and walked back, leaving the tunnel—
and what we once had—to its own darkness.

Peaks Island, Maine