by Lazarus TR Lavandre
Out of the mug’s cracked ceramic lip soft steam billowed through stale air
hissing that this promise just given, that you hope to be kept, is forgotten,
forfeit among their stressful schedules and slipping thoughts. Again. No chicken
coop built, no hike past pine trees, no clean sink – the beard
hair and chunks of soap remain. A journal of every wish come true
turns absently through its blank pages. You try to circle back, underline one part
that came true. Nothing here. Inside your brain blooms with gray paint circling the
empty future you’re working on. Your whole life you’ve wondered what
color would show up if one word of theirs were kept, just one. But there is
nothing in the gray, not even black. Coward, you’ve your own color – paint a path back.