Combustible Mood
Inside every
hole punch
there is
an undelivered speech.
Yesterday, it was wet towels; believe
you me, they were guts.
Today, it’s the oatmeal dried
on a spoon, the white felt
and popsicle sticks I must
procure for my child’s diorama.
The ghost orchid
is what she’s chosen to depict.
A leafless crown, our floating
diadem of climactic dread.
