Undomesticated scenes

There’s no life-
likeness in the dioramas
he meticulously pieces
together with stray remnants of lost
childhood, but there may be
an uncanny resemblance to truth

Rover

Rover discovers a guilty pleasure,
gnawing at his master's teak rosary beads.
Penance will be five Hail Mary's short.

Rabbit Ears

Since that day TV took away rabbit
ears and their unfloppy twirl o' meager
function, he leans in toward the snowy
blank to curse about its unformed angels.

Flash fiction: Disorder

She keeps her pretty laminated
recipe cards pristinely stacked upright
and ordered inside boxes that are
in turn organized by ethnicity.
Some do try to defy her too
categorical mind. These end up
alphabetized without a grin and put
within an apologetic little
catchall that, collections completed,
she'll not visit willingly again.

Each ensuing night, fingers spiral
down dimples stamped on a cardboard-cutout
globe she leaves standing on her marbled
granite slab of a counter. One place
chosen from among those she's never been,
she lifts the hunter-green translucent
lid of its corresponding container
and pulls out a single card that her eyes
feast on, ticking off precise measures
in the savory worded list.

Sated so, she pours big bowls of cold
cereal thickly coated. She doesn't like
to cook.

Flash Fiction: False Imprint

He imagines he feels her first.
The slight tap of slender fingertips
to stop the holes only she can see
run down his fluted arm.

Then, tender lines of perhaps
too-thin lips follow along his neck
to shape lyrics from bouncy songs
he heard once, in passing.

Finally, her whole body pulls close
eager to imprint his bare back
with blocky paragraphs that break
his inhibited spell.

All this happens in glancing yet.
They haven't met, but when they do
their story may choose to travel
less conventional paths.

Flash fiction: Stilled life

He pulls the flannel sheet up
all the way over his head,
a purply plaid pretend shroud
very much in need of washing.

"If I can lie this way,"
he whispers, "ever so still, I might
convince Death that long-awaited
visit has come too late."

But, he's not sure how long
he can hold the pose, and then
there's the small problem of his
constant shallow breathing.

Flash fiction: Nook book

There's a tiny nook
behind her double bed
where she keeps small thoughts,
always written out with blue ink
on regular, lined notebook paper.

But the pad is nearly full,
and the nook can't fit another,
so she'll have to be content
re-thinking those same small thoughts
until the tiny gets bigger.

Flash fiction: Chopping blocked

Acting on the impulse to chop
off his too-uncooperative hands,
he finds himself
with a bloody stump,
a dulled ax,
and no clue
how to finish the job.