2:33 am

We could write poetry
into the wee hours of the morning.

My wife and me and the candlelight
bouncing off of the walls and off of the ceiling.

We could keep our pens moving
until the amateur farmers wake up and do their morning routine.

We could write lines like, "why is there no
such thing as a timeout button on the refrigerator?"

We could write lines like, "the creek is looking more and more
like a river than a creek."

We could try all night until the amateur farmers
finally wake up. The hum of the milking machines doubles as an alarm clock.

We could do this, we could.

There will still be time to warm our cars up
and to get our coffee ready.

-C. Binton

dinner and cards

My mother says that there is a problem with me. She says that it is not right that it is just me and Oprah Winfrey. When she visits on Thursdays for dinner and cards this is all she talks about.
"You should go out with your friends," she says, shuffling. "You should leave Oprah alone for a night and go out with your friends. It's just not right."
I tell her that I am not interested in what she thinks is right. I tell her she sounds like Louise at work, the pregnant account manager who spends all day talking about her two gallbladder surgeries from the eighties and her two ex-husbands from the nineties.
"Nag, nag, nag," I say.
Oprah Winfrey meows. She is sitting on my lap.
"Your father is worried about you," she says, dealing. "He really wants grandchildren."
I shake my head and pick up my cards. Oprah Winfrey purrs. I am holding two pairs.
"If dad is so interested in grandchildren, he should teach a Sunday School class at St. Elizabeths."
My mother puts the deck on the center of the table.
"He won't do that," she says. "You know how your father feels about religion. He's worse than you."