joseph hardy

BLAND

I’m thinking of going bland.
Not the hair color, more like tapioca 
on a diner-menu, hiding in plain sight, 
that no one thinks to complain about, 
or wants to sink their teeth into. Safe,
like all expected disappointments.

 Underappreciated bland
is the twelve-slow-elevator floors
of a Kenny G tribute band
you escape for the stairs,
the highly polished surface
of a southern lady’s bless your heart,            

the smile I give my mother, 
smoking Marlboro Lights 
by her oxygen tank,
the murmur for my daughter,
running on about her life,
back home, without a job.

 Bland: the open palm
of a hand facing out,
which gives nothing up,
lets nothing in, 
a blank face in a mirror
before turning away.

Josephy Hardy is of a handful of writers that lives in Nashville, Tennessee, but does not play a musical instrument—although, a friend once asked that he bring his harmonica on a camping trip so they could throw it in the fire. His wife says he cannot leave a room without finding out something about everyone in it, and telling her their stories later. Joseph has a BS degree in psychology from Stanford University. His work has been published in Gyroscope Review, Waving Hands Review and is forthcoming in Kind Writers and Crack the Spine Literary Magazine.