Here are two of my more recent efforts.
UNTITLED
like the marigolds at the back of the raised garden that summer
burned by the brick, brown at the edges, dried and curled
like old parchment or a notebook left to warp in the heat of an
unshaded window,
a catastrophe of sins, mistakes remembered, carried like an old
work injury,
the back hunching weighing down the gait with worries, wondering
if that one moment could change, would change it all,
everything that followed and asking, really, would he want it to?
WE TALKED ABOUT THIS
We talked about this
but he didn’t answer,
the cold water dripping from the faucet in the tub,
pooling up, drain clogged,
just a bit of drain opener, a new gasket,
that’s all it needs,
but he doesn’t answer,
doesn’t talk
so I open the mail and sort the bills,
the fliers, the junk,
wonder how much of this to pay,
how much of that,
numbers running on, the interest mounting.
We talked about this
but he didn’t answer,
TV on in the den flickering,
a magnet for his attention,
sitting, waiting for the ball scores
as the announcer talks about some new medical breakthrough,
dog sleeping at his feet,
stuck in that same sad chair,
same sad place,
everyday, rarely stirring except
to go to the toilet, maybe get a beer –
We talked about this
but he doesn’t answer,
six months now
house sold, his wife,
settled in and safe,
but he still sits silent like that,
night after night,
watching the news,
waiting as if the weather forecast
will unlock a secret
that will stop the clocks, set them back, bring her home.
