Daymare

Does one wonder in hidden moonlight, drowned
by noonday sun, if lunacy seeps even now into
cracks, pores, follicles, corners of eyes? Surely
this maelstromic soup, part mother, part father,
part those who piled invectives during years 
best forgotten, cannot have coalesced entirely
without simmering by some stronger force?

93/100
100 poems in 100 days
[how weird! WordPress refused to add the tag “nurture”…and only that one…]

an intersection of lunatics

My wife changes
linens as lunatics do:
four sets, towels,
sheets, rotated through
twenty-eight days.
White as reliably
follows Black as
Waxing follows
Waning.

Occasionally I've
challenged the Tide
by suggesting, "why
don't you wash Thursday
instead of Friday?
We're vacationing
soon. Best to look
forward, balance it."

I've no idea how
my Tides of Time
intersect hers. It
makes things
interesting.

22/100