view from my driveway

view from my driveway


See the ridge in the distance, rising
    peaks that touch the dawn.
Green risers in steppes from the base
    prove the diversity of the deceivingly
monotonous greenery,
    betraying deeper wisdom.
How much they must have to teach.


Ancients gaze from their heights,
    not down but out,
daring me to reach,
    to touch their
         burning edges
and endure the sunrise
    without remorse.
How far their eyes must reach.

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Lather III: The Sink Will Remember This

Lather III: The Sink Will Remember This

Mister loved his leather chair.
Sink and walls knew
they’d never amount
in his mind,
though they did try.

He bounced his little son on that chair,
knees like anything but
trampolines
to the naked eye.

He sat and laughed for hours at the table,
with his son, so sure
so sure
he knew his young flesh and blood.

He whispered Love’s name to his son,
and the listening wall at night,
and shared with them
a secret smile.

He sang to the sink every morning,
a sunny song
thanking the day
for being.

The sink sang, too,
silently.

The son couldn’t come home
to his father’s old leather chair.
He became acquainted
with new walls, a different kind of chair.

For what? (The sink doesn’t know.)
The chairs, they’ve spoken often of it,
though,
never when Mister’s around.

The sink remembers.

The walls, the chairs,
they can all attest.

Now Mister grips the chair’s strong arm
like a failing, falling handshake.
The chair catches him,
just in time.

He competes, staring, with the wall
for hours (but he
is defeated,
in the end.)

He tries to write the note,
hands trembling, fingertips
recording his seismic
waves.

And, shaken well, he sets
down the pen,
unused,
ink left to foam and lather.

The pens,
they remember.

The sink collects
his blood samples,
wondering where the song is,
hoping it’s all just a game.

The sink will remember this.
The pens, they already know.

The walls will wish for mouths
To unhinge and let go.

And they will move on.

But the sink,
the sink will remember this.

Things will live on without him.
And so, somehow, do we.

And look, here the sun
presses warm nose to
nostalgic window
pane.

Funny, how it does that.