i am not a home.

just a place to visit and kick it
for a while. rented
like a summer house
in winter by the shore.
hear waves pound the sand -
a hollow rushing.
temporary shelter from a storm.
clothes of previous inhabitants hanging
in cedar scented closets. Sweaters,
belts, and gloves left in haste.
some things should fit you just right.

i am not a home.
Copyright © 2002 Winifred Tracey

People Winnie Cannot Date

Agnostics

Atheists

devout Catholics

Jewish men

Arab men

Irish men

German men

balding men

fat men

skinny men

girlfriend-ed men

married men

divorced men

old men

young men

broke men

rich men

smelly men

women

friend daters

ex-girlfriend praisers

dutch date-ers

once-maker-hers

cell phone fakers

cat haters

Stout drinkers

Bud drinkers

scotch drinkers

heavy drinkers

heavy smokers

drug abusers

money-order bill payers

psychos

stalkers

tennis teachers

school friends

co-workers

non-workers

fathers

mama’s boys

dullards

one night stand-ers

tampon-phobics

show offs

misogynists

disease givers

interview reading porno creepers

floor sleepers

therapied wannabies

And men who have pets named after famous Hollywood actresses

People Winnie Cannot Date
Copyright © 2001 Winifred Tracey

to someone we all know:

there is a valium
with your name on it
somewhere,
collecting dust,
rife with self-
esteem and inadequacy
issues
because it will never be
swallowed.

to someone we all know:
Copyright © 2003 Winifred Tracey

Marriage

Put the children to bed.


I am tired of telling comfort stories
that will become betrayals
when Charles McGrudgen
-that fat boy-
pops his thick slick thumb
from his mouth
and announces at recess
that Santa Clause is dead
and goodness doesn’t matter,
the presents will still come


Our Sarah, golden quiet,
asked me about a wall
today. I watched her print
capital A’s down the left side
of her quartered composition page
“Where is it?”, she asked,
“And what shade of pink is Floyd?”


On my fifth Jack, the words would still not come
I lay naked, silent in our quilted bed
Where are you? Will you come?


In your absence I speak hot
don't knows
my full lips dumb
pretend that winter is a season

Marriage
Copyright © 2003 Winifred Tracey

Life in the City...

It's sort of like the vibe you get from someone who escapes from a dysfunctional family and moves all the way across country to change her name from Sophie Ann to Sophia, then years later she has to go back home for Thanksgiving (her mom made her promise), and is filled with dread because she hates her family and she knows the holiday evening is going to end up with her and her mom in a screaming match at the dining room table about how her life is sooo fucked up because her mom didn't let her take ballet lessons when she was 5 years old and everybody said how talented and graceful she was (Damn it! She coulda been in Swan Fucking Lake!), after which she will run up the stairs to her old room (which is exactly the same way it was when she left 15 years ago), ransack her luggage for an airplane sample bottle of Smirnoff and a stale cigarette she knows is at the bottom of her purse (and thank God for putting it there!), lean her head out the window and puff away, careful to blow the smoke out, and when her mom knocks on the door 5 minutes later to see if she is okay, she fans the smoke and yells through the closed door,

"I'm fine mom. I'll be right down. I Just needed to grab my book to write down Cousin Tommy's new address in San Francisco".

Yeah, like she'll ever be visiting that schizophrenic homo...

Life in the City...
Copyright © 2001 Winifred Tracey