Rain

This morning, while in the shower,
my daughter asked to come in
to use the bathroom.
She had woken up on her own,
or the animal cries of the newborn
down the hall had done the job.

While she was reaching for the toilet paper,
and I for my towel, I said,
“It’s raining this morning, honey.”
She said, “I know.”
“How?” I asked.
“Because it was in my dream.”
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Truffle

It’s called rooting,
or so we’re told as our
new daughter searches for a nipple.
Apropos, as the random, nose-first,
tongue-out snuffling is rather
porcine. Searching through the humus
to find the priceless white truffle
of my wife’s milk-swollen breasts.
_________________________________

Lampyridae

The firefly sparks cold green against my
leg despite repeated efforts to brush
it off. It keeps crawling back up.
Persistence seems to be the name
of its game, just truckin’ along,
flickering lightning, despite my lack
of pheromones and/or sexy wings.

Nulty Lynch is a husband, father, poet and fly-fisherman. Not usually all at once, or in that order. He lives in Laurel, Maryland with his wife and two daughters. He works in Washington D.C. and spends his train commute writing, staring out the window and people watching.