Ok...per monsa's advice, I'm gonna attempt to put my new poem in here with line breaks:


COMFORT FOOD
---------------------


Sometimes mashed potatoes do the trick.
Lucerne salted butter, warm milk poured in slowly
along with a very sturdy fork for beating, blending
and fluffing my starchy sanctuary food.
No matter that I always eat large spoonfuls so thick
they nearly choke me. Sometimes not breathing
is what makes my head just a little more lucid.

Saturday Night, slows my anxiety, hypnotizes me,
dancing to Apple Gabriel, letting my eyes study
the pattern on the dirty black and white checker
board floor. I can lose myself in the root-bound rhythms
and dub echoes. My arms and hands moving
as if through fierce winds. My feet floating
above the floor like a sleepwalker.

But my ultimate comfort isn't food at all.
It's a queen size box spring set. Layers in white,
faded red Shanghai sheets and the cranberry colored
afghan that my grandma crocheted when I needed one of my own.
Cats curled around my feet, book in my hand, fully flat pillow
under my head, nothing at all in my mind.


***********

Let me go see how this turned out! Thanks lil' Monsey Monsa!

do the jerk * do the frug