Butter might not melt in that mealy mouth,

but potent fructose clogs the arteries

of every syrup-laden missive.

She seems not to notice

that her sticky-notes

are attracting



Peony buds leaking sweet ‘sap’ that draws ants to the picnic…

The Day Will Come


you nod

and blush

 and simper;

there is nothing to suggest

that your core is

full of worms.

Plastic smiles

and wooden nickels

are bread to your butter,

static to your cling.

You have cleverly hidden

the stench of death

under a fresh Febreeze,

but the day will come

when the nearest nose

will  get more

than it bargained for…