Belinda

pain radiates in conversation
hoping to be set free.
her world of hurt blinded by
daffodils and coffee.

the smell of a house built
too close to the bank for
people who can’t even
afford toothpaste.

steps away from familiarity
leading towards two new rooms
where things grow.

Routine Transparency

He asked how his grandkids were,
the other answered willingly
with stories that created laughter
but mostly exposed the brokenness

fifteen years of Friday mornings
causes all questions to be
answered with truth.

winding through books to familiarity
reminds them of their routine
transparency.

the retired ski instuctors
with two weathered sweaters
chose to sit on
the same overstuffed couch
with the same view of the mountains
with the same mug full of the same
mocha with whip and decaf black

But today someone else was there
yet to be a regular here, she sat alone
with blank pages and a serious look
facing the books
comforted by a cup of tea.

they knew they had sat too close
they knew there were empty couches
they knew their words were safe with her
after they exposed their souls she
joined with tears and told them
how lucky they were to be known.