deb y felio
Alternate Universe
deb y felio writes and waits for a new tomorrow because, thankfully, there are no used ones.
deb y felio writes and waits for a new tomorrow because, thankfully, there are no used ones.
.
deb y felio writes and waits for a new tomorrow because, thankfully, there are no used ones.
I am more careful
when I eat,
knowing I cannot
mask what the mask
catches and gives
back to me.
deb y felio writes and waits for a new tomorrow because, thankfully, there are no used ones.
She looks as if she remembers
this top half of a face
she once could kiss
and whispers,
‘Nana?’
deb y felio writes and waits for a new tomorrow because, thankfully, there are no used ones.
I lie here beside you listening to the thunder
and remember the conference last week in New Orleans
where I ran into an old dear friend, and we spent
the one free evening dining and drinking
then returning to his room to talk about old times
and our strong desire to reclaim an unclaimed past,
but for better or worse the vows were stronger,
and I told him the promises, as ragged as they were, still meant something,
so we parted again with what-could-have-beens in our suitcases,
and when you broke the reverie just now with your question
what are you thinking,
I lie and say nothing.
deb y felio writes because besides reading, what else is there?
After years of flushing unused narcotics,
and dumping weapons of mean destruction
into the nearest bodies of water,
schools of fish have become gangs,
and no other marine life seems to care.
deb y felio writes and lives one sentence at a time – sometimes simple and sometimes complex.
From the floor to ceiling window
in my 43rd floor apartment
of a 54 storied highrise
I watch the intersecting circles
of interstates and
bypasses clogged
with vehicles
that once moved freely
from here to there
and realize tonight
there is no choice
for a road
less traveled.
deb y felio is so she writes.