Razor Twine
Flowers splayed across polished ebony
did nothing to brighten the preacher's tone,
which grated her eardrums mercilessly
and battered her bruised heart- blow after blow.
The droning plodded diligently on
amidst a symphony of sniveling,
illiciting no obvious response-
but inward, emotions were spiraling.
Her tenuous grip on reality
was further tried in the receiving line
when friends and relatives hovered, hawky;
entrapped her in their loving razor twine.
At last at home, the quietness was stale-
so she opened her mom's bedroom window
to an inward breeze greedily inhaled
and rested her sore eyes on a pillow.
Her tear ducts had shriveled up days ago,
replaced by anger and incertitude;
predictions that her family had sowed
proved literal and shamefully acute.
They said, "your mom will always be with you,"
no doubt intending to ease some distress;
but, her issues exponentially grew-
her mother's soul partially possessed her.
Now, one would think that to be opportune-
but sharing the fuselage made her hotch;
she wanted the power to enter a room
without mom staring at her father's crotch.
Instant Camaraderie
The heavy press of history's
intoxicating scent,
enhanced by poignant victories,
is better than I dreamt.
The Monster looms above left field,
the Bud Deck over right-
both witnesses to firm belief
and neverending pride.
Elation spreads like wildfire
as people take their seats,
when over home the first pitch flies
with monumental speed.
No fan base beats Red Sox Nation-
we won the lottery;
just seeing a jersey elates us-
instant camaraderie.
Throughout the innings, bats do crack
and balls thwack into gloves
while everyone at Fenway Park
doth show their club some love.
During the seventh inning stretch,
Sweet Caroline is sung;
the bullpen's warming up pitchers
and beer flows over tongues.
A sea of reds and blues awash
in hopeful rally caps;
but win or lose, they're friends by gosh-
united by a pact.
No fan base beats Red Sox Nation-
we won the lottery;
just seeing a jersey elates us-
instant camaraderie.
