Late night poems (and pasta), space heater cuddles, and the quest for a cure - the Friday poem roundup

What I wrote Wed, 4/16 to Fri, 4/18

Happy Friday, friends. Hope you were able to check out Thursday’s live chat! Three days, three poems, three more reasons to get up and do something today. Let’s get into it.

4/16/25
Late night poems
Like a plate of
   buttery, salty pasta
   at 11pm.
Terrible for you 
But you can’t stop 
Even though,
When morning comes,
Your guts will proclaim:
   I told you so.
Late night poems 
Like old friends 
Who keep you up 
   past 2am
   talking about old times 
Even though 
You probably should have 
Gone to bed 
   long ago.

I am notorious for noshing late at night, and noshing things that would not be listed in the healthy column. Typically, this involves grazing on dinner leftovers and well-seasoned pasta glistening with olive oil ranks near the top of the list. I am well aware that this practice is quite unhealthy and that I really should stop doing it. And I think I’m getting better…maybe?…

4/17/25
Let’s cuddle 
By the space heater 
   while we wait for summer.
We don’t have a fireplace 
With crackling embers 
   to keep us warm.
With drippy s’mores
And ghost stories 
   to keep us full and happy.
So,
Let’s cuddle 
By the space heater
   while we wait for 
   the sounds of peepers,
   the trips to Ogunquit,
   the sensual smell of warm evening.
Let’s cuddle
And wait.

Sometimes poems come late at night when the only available light is the orange glow of the bedroom space heater, which keeps us at a tolerable temperature through the long winter months.

4/18/25
If you are still not well 
   in the summer 
We will take you 
To the ocean.
Let the icy, salty water 
   draw out the poison.
If you are still not well 
   in the fall
We will take you 
To the forest.
Let the fairies and trolls 
   smother your sores with magic.
If you are still not well 
   in the winter 
We will carry you 
To the ashrams of India.
Let the ancient medicine 
Of a thousand years 
   melt away your misfortune 
   and leave only you.

If you’ve been keeping up with the poems this month, you’ll know that strep has paraded its way through our household. While the little one and I have pretty much come out the other side, it doesn’t seem entirely ready to let go of the wife. In moments like these—when I hear her cough or sniffle—sometimes the mind makes things a bit more dramatic, which leads to things like this poem.

If you’ve made it this far, you clearly don’t mind my writing. So, make it official and pick up a copy of Every Day, Luv.

See you next week! :)