a slave to words

sometimes a piece of work

drips off the ends of my

fingers   slides across my

keyboard & writes itself

at others   words wedged in

creases of my right brain 

   await excavation   

   conveyance to the page

words   my dearest lovers

   my most cruel enemies

serve me at their pleasure

& make of me their slave

©  2011 cj Schlottman

If I Die Young

if i die young it will be 

at 95   surrounded

by friends and family

as we take afternoon tea

there will be champagne on ice

lovely luscious lemon squares

salty   spicy-hot cheese straws 

slices of soft sweet pound cake

i will hold court from my bed

swathed with sheer silk canopies

as yards of laughter cut from 

the bolt of my life fade to 

endless stories born of our

intertwined lives   braided of

love   woven into fine cloth 

i will smile   sip tea   wait to

take sweet kisses from each of you

hold your warm hands in mine  

cool now as i feel myself

fade   grow smaller 

sunshine will shimmer through thin

curtains as it begins its

descent   bathing our faces

in soft light of my dying

i will love you forever

©  2011 cj Schlottman

Sarah at 28

I nose my car into

an angled parking space 

at Wal Mart.   A furnace 

blasts my face as I

step into the sun.

A voice   traveling on

the wind   rings familiar.

   “Sir could you spare some money?”

My head jerks.   Sarah.

At the “Enter” door

   hand held out   eyes down

   panhandling    begging

money from strangers.

A tank top   olive drab

hugs her slender body

   tattered baggy pants

puddle over rubber flip-flops.

Sweat glistens on her brow.

She looks up   a startled

glance that radiates shame

reveals black-rimmed eyes

   silent screams at their core

   her pasty face pocked with 

scabs of psoriasis

   arms tattooed with figures

I cannot make out.

I half expect her to

move in my direction.

Instead   she returns

her gaze to the pavement

   shuffles her feet.

I manage a whispered hello

   move through the sliding door

swallowing bile.   I rush

to the toilet   vomit

   wretch   heave   wash my face

   rinse my mouth, blow my nose.

I sit on the wooden bench

outside the restroom

   fend off more nausea 

   wonder how this child

grew into an addict

   a street person in rags

   blackened blonde hair a

thin disguise.  Our granddaughter.

Juicy Fruit my only 

purchase   I drag myself 

to the door   find her gone 

   stumble to my car   

   tear open the gum   stuff two 

pieces in my mouth   chew 

   chase the foul taste 

   sit   wait   as tears dry 

   wonder how I came here  
how I’ll find my way home. 

©  2011 cj Schlottman