despite the two gals
who won't/don't call
(ghosted is the youthful term),
today is a grand day
for poetry and being misunderstood.
a year in the making,
since last year's party,
where we all died
a few extra lovely unlost days.
an idea becoming a reality,
and life is like a rejection letter
from a lover or an editor:
it either gets burned in a brushfire or turned a placemat;
regardless it is twisted into newness and air.
this is where we dance,
thus forgetting those who
hurt us in our hearts
and lift those who trusted us on our shoulders.
a glass of wine,
an Advil PM,
a book on Amazon,
a phone call and an email,
tonight I am smiling big and loud in dreams and real life.