Friday, July 14, 2017


Scavenging the attic joists for boxes of
looking through yearbooks and brown-edged
for notes sung in showers,
        of bob-skates strapped to
sliding down a knoll in the middle
                    of the school-yard ice
on a frozen February night
               as part of a contrived
escape plan to evade the
              storm in the brick
saltbox at 104….
                           only to waken
in the dentist’s chair
                          months later
after the puck shortened
                two front teeth
and sounded the final
shrinking hockey into
              Saturday afternoon
                 and then there were
tattered programs from
                   piano recitals and
          ladies’ night solos
in tweed jackets and bow ties
               on searsucker shirts
……..worn too in the rock garden
for the posed sitting with
                 a very young and
smocked sister
                 surrounded by
gladiolas and peonies
              and bent stocks
        of fat red, ripe,
                  as if we were
living a kind of
choreographed apprenticeship
           for decades of
performances in search of
and more applause
           in a film-loop
of trophy gardening and
                    trophy parenting
 adhering strictly to a paint by number
                canvas lined by
                                myths of perfection.              

No comments:

Post a Comment