Stretch your societal deprivation,
or not, and be that sunken structure.

Doesn’t much matter while what’s happened,
happened, and it’ll be next to you, or without.
The Trinity has a pulse.

-M. Taggart

poem- reality, really

We crossed state lines
to pick up our new grill

I sat in my truck,
in the parking lot at Lowe’s,
and watched as men and
women entered the adult playground

Most wore masks, some practiced
social distancing

I got the text from Megan
telling me to pull the truck up front

I pictured her at the register wearing
her black face mask
talking with a cashier who also wore
a face mask and who stood behind a plastic shield

I pulled the truck up front, put it in park,
and looked at my own ninja mask.

A couple walked passed my truck
the man nodded as I slipped on my mask

The grill is somewhat large, and slightly heavy-
“I don’t know if I can lift this, my back is a bit off.”

Just as Megan had said that, an older gentleman
entering Lowe’s heard and asked if we needed a hand.

He helped me lift the grill onto the tailgate
he was plenty helpful and plenty nice
He wore no mask

He stood plenty close
and gave me a fine look of a child

Reality is a good place, really

Crossing state lines, on a back road
leading into Maine,
stood a massive LED sign on wheels
“All those entering Maine must
quarantine for fourteen days.”

-M. Taggart


Sometimes I drink to warn off the nerves
And that’s OK
No matter what people think

There’s a dog in the sky
I wonder what he’s doing up there

looks friendlier than a man down here
walking on the cement,
within reach of a wooded path,
narrowing thought into splinters to speak
of what is and what should be, while his slippers
shed off pebbles entering his footings

this beer is just nice enough to have another
and to continue on about the man in slippers
who know’s everything about how to live

and how not to drink

Dog is leaving now
head removed itself
from body


I think many of us want to fight in a great battle;
It’s possible we’ve already performed our duty
and won’t understand until the very end of everything.

Door knobs do twist in an untwisting way
while cracks of the Head shadows
a shame walking down the road
alone, head down, depression
anchoring silence.

-M. Taggart


smallish, simple things.

Expect a large, “Hello,” from the sky today. That’s how it is. How it works. There’s no one person who knows other than the self, wishing to see what’s given from a simple gust of wind; lifting the ever floating leaf, closer to its destination, just beyond the reach of your outstretched arms as you look above to receive the day’s welcome.

-M. Taggart

poem- new desk.

My fingers are strong,
so I think I’ll type a bit more.

Set up my new desk this evening.
Having scotch to celebrate.
Blue Label.

The old desk was tied
to my abuse.

Told myself it was OK.

How many years did I write on that?

How many rain drops fell.

Life is what we make it.
Unless you’re a child without a choice.

-M. Taggart