August 25, 2015

Patchwork


My father lies
in a north-facing hill,
fresh-dug earth
on patchwork ground,
name and numbers
cut deep in stone,
I'd left him here,
so long ago.
But now his marker's
been cut again,
my stepmother's name
below his own,
only the wind
makes any sound.
After thirty long years
she sleeps within.
I can't help wonder
if he knows she's here,
with empty plots
just down the hill,
a more scenic spot
awaits her still.

August 21, 2015

Inevitable


I guess
it was inevitable
I'd end up here,
trailing for years
behind your shadow,
finding clues
you might be near,
the place we met,
now turned into
something new.
A beat-up table
where we sat,
is no longer
in plain view;
where it's gone
I wish I knew.
Only the mirror
behind the bar
looks just like
it did before;
your drink waiting
makes me think,
you might once
have been here,
too.

August 17, 2015

New Companions


The annoying toddler,
his chatty mother
on her phone;
the silent standby,
forever waiting
to get home;
the First-Class couple,
looking hungover,
she in leather,
seeing her future
through dark glasses,
wishing she weren't
so alone.
These are now
my new companions,
hearing the agent
announce our boarding,
walking so quickly,
down the tunnel
of no return.


August 14, 2015

What Do the Dead Think?


What do the dead think
as we walk by?
Are they envious,
or bored
out of their minds?
Do they notice how years
and decades pass
in the blink
of an eye?
Do they ask why
we age so fast,
while they change
hardly at all?
They must know
we're not often here,
to study their stones
and weep,
wondering when
we, too,
will sleep.

August 11, 2015

Pool Boy


The pool boy's gone,
the jacuzzi clean,
each drop chaste,
his absolutions done 
so we might slip
into warm water
just before sleep:
our little Lourdes,
where we can
leave our pain,
to be washed away
by tomorrow,
when, they say,
he'll return,
again.

August 7, 2015

Warning


Though the longest day
has passed,
we awaken still to heat,
each day hotter
than the one before,
this morning already
too hot to touch,
like a panhandle
one had forgotten
in the rush to the table.
We're content to stay
indoors, condensers choking
the street with noise,
everyone's AC loudly on.
I remember this roar
last year, all of us
sticking close to the TV,
watching the latest warning
crawl across the screen,
getting bigger
by the quarter hour,
as if it were already
here, approaching 
around the corner,
now.