Cookie, loved what you said about people from waiting in the line at WalMart. What a different place this would be if our culture still idolized honor.
I'm going to be brave and add a few poems I've been working on:

Imagine
They all do it, each and every season.
The trees surrender leaves
The birds their feathers molt
The frogs slip from their skin
And who am I to tease these kin?
On letting go
Without any sin.

Yet, I hold onto needles
the bleeding seems so needless
And where's the sense?
When death comes at dawn
Isn't the richness to not hang on?

Mourning for Wallace Stevens
Imagine the interior paramour
You showed me as a child
A place of safty, where all is light as before
When I stopped my being, soiled as the wild
Never again, to be the child.

Now I am here
The interior is tattered, in need of repair
The paramour remains dusty
But its being cleansed wih some fresh air
The child is growing, not filled yet with much
The pantry is still somewhat bare
But falling away,
Is the interior of despair.