At the home
where
mother resides, across the hall
in a hell
of her own
where
she doesn't know what time it is
or whether she ate, or just ate, and if it's
time
again, there stands Francis - blank look
on her face,
worrying, worrying at
her beads, a single strand
of pearls,
asking if she can walk
with us
to the elevator
to go
down
to dinner -Is is time?
she always
wants
to know.
And I see the vacancy
where there
used to be
a girl once
who knew where
she was - why she was
standing
there, and who
gave
her
that
necklace.
Hung From Poles
Veteran's Day
banners
hung from poles, the faces
of conflict - generations
of dead
faces.
Smiling. I couldn't see
to drive
the world a watery blur
the hearses in my head
with boxes
inside
draped with flags
sad mothers broken
wives
and orphaned
children
of Vets
who grow
to be men
who
take up arms again
and on and on it goes
and at
night I browse
through a picture book by Dominick Dunne
about the way
we were
back
then, the
perfect shoes the faces
all too bright, the years
not
shown,
the murder
of his
daughter -
not even
a glimmer of coming
horrors
as he
holds her,
her
rounded arms
her dark soft curls
against
his hand, it's gotten so
I cannot
look
at anything anymore
with
out
seeing
the future
and there rises in me
such
a mad denial
and
grief
that as I
age
the skin
gets thinner and thinner until I think
that's what
dying is -
the skin
is thinned
until it holds nothing inside
it,
and we drift
away.
Nature Of Things
Sharp
click of squirrel
sounds
in the trees.
His nest
well-padded
but
he
is angry. Dark
shadow
coming in
like an expert fighter plane
as
predator
flies low
and sweeps the grass. Quick
ground squirrel
flees in panic -
jumps
under
the pick-up, hunched
on the wheel, sits
under
the hub
just looking at me,
his
body
heaving.
As I approach
I see
the wide wide eyes of fear as though
to say -Is there nothing
you can do?
I signal
back
I
can't.
And
I'm not on
speaking terms
with the one
who could.
I didn't make
this world,
little
guy. I suffer
it too.
The Long Afternoons
Long walk down hallways
carpeted
and soft, I find her
sitting
in her chair. Hair white
as moon
on
snow -
just
as remote
until
she
sees me. Light
draws back
into
her eyes
she
tries to remember
the day. Happy
when she
guesses
