Combustible Mood

Inside every

hole punch

there is

an undelivered speech.

Yesterday, it was wet towels; believe

you me, they were guts.

Today, it’s the oatmeal dried

on a spoon, the white felt

and popsicle sticks I must

procure for my child’s diorama.

The ghost orchid

is what she’s chosen to depict.

A leafless crown, our floating

diadem of climactic dread.