Flood

When the water went down,

he went back.

Shafts of light found

the darkness, transformed

blind broken plates into

shadows that trembled

with every shudder

of his flashlight.

He sloshed through drowned keepsakes,

thankful that his memories

were buoyant.

The sofa used to be around here somewhere.

His eyes followed the murky ripples

to the baby cradle,

crushed in the corner,

the boards his grandfather sanded

like a rotting woodpile,

collapsed and askew.

The TV antennae caught the light,

one of the arms wore

one of his wife’s sweaters,

frayed and torn.

I never did like that sweater.

His daughter’s violin case floated by,

and he strained to reach and grab it.

One day her notes would trill

through the air again,

over the city.

Past the water.



Nursing Home

Your eyes shift

with uncertainty.

The wind has slaughtered

your thoughts again,

rattled you as it does

the loose window,

pulling at the strength

of the pane.

Focus is hard for you these days.

The cold air outside

is a blank canvas to you,

you say the trees are lonely,

wonder where the leaves have gone.

Funny, you muttered,

they were orange yesterday.

I’ve come again to sing for you, Mattie,

though the tunes are still in your body.

The lyrics to “Amazing Grace”

float up from some forgotten corridor,

your smile a candle

to guide them back

as though you’ve not lost the days.



Thoughts on the Fly

I want to smash a fly,

end its drug-tripping,

weaving,

erratic flight

around my desk.

In desperation,

I swung at it with

my Merriam-Webster’s,

convinced I could kill

it with the weight of

1200 words in one place.

I hate flies.

I know scientists

could explain to me

the delicate balance

of the ecosystem

and how this winged

kamikaze pilot

is in some way, crucially

related to the survival of

glaciers in Antarctica.

But all I can think

right now

is how the bugger

has landed on my dictionary,

and is tap-dancing on it

to taunt me.