Village Smokehouse

coming back from this joint
where mashed potatoes hang
deliciously suspended
in slow-motion off and on forks and folks
while ribs hide under blankets of sauce
and the butter could be wrung off the corn
we walk, still tasting heaven

a store's neon sign
blocked by a telephone poll
reads “god exchange”
but instead, as we continue
changes to “food exchange”
utter and obvious nonsense:
we would never exchange that meal
with anyone, not even Him.

Between Two Points

will you catch me
when I stumble and fall?
can you catch me
because I know
this ledge, I know
this jump,
so when I ask
will you hold out those skinny arms
to the tons and tons of falling years
which are feathers to me
to you, boulders,
and those arms
no matter how hard
you try
will snap
now, catch me
I'm falling