Friday, September 23, 2022

Michael Weeks 3

The day of your funeral a hundred people came to the cabin we built on the back of your parents’ land.
 
What times we had there. We continually jumped over the campfire until Roberts fell into it. We played guitars and danced like morons. We hung stolen street signs on the walls and dripped profanities in candle wax on the plywood bar.
 
Cabin guests were by invite only. I guess the crowd was invited, but not by you, me, Roberts, or Sundance. I entered the door, saw two young girls scraping your candle wax off the bar, and walked out.
 
During the service, a rain fell so hard no one could hear the speaker. I cried and sang “Fire and Rain” while Nic and Sundance played guitars.
 
After the service, the rain stopped and everyone got stuck in the mud—wheels spinning, clothes ruined. I laughed. I know you did, too. 


Friday, September 16, 2022

Tater Poems

A lone curled cat
on the couch anchors
the room.
 
 
 
What does the high tail
slinking around the opened door
mean after the repeated screaming?
 
 
 
Silent house. No cat in sight.
Eyes look out the dresser drawer.
 
 
 
Paw prints on the counter.
Toy mouse in the laundry.
 
 
 
There’s a loose string
on the back of my shorts,
according to the claws in me.
 
 
 
The cupboard doors clunk.
The cat tree shakes. A door mat
shoots across the floor.
 
 
 
I wake and can’t move my head.
Tater is on my hair. Purring. 


Turning Timid

The leaves show no fear.
But a sensitive limb blushes
gold and betrays the tree.
 
Relieved by the revealed
honesty, each leaf comforts
the other with back patting, 
 
and none feels the tremble.
Down below, green grass
holds a lone gold leaf.


Thursday, September 15, 2022

Leslie’s Out

Tater sleeps in the bedroom 
until he hears the toilet flush, 
the light switch, or the recliner's motor—
something that signals I’m mobile.
 
He enters. I give him a treat, 
pat his head, and return to my book. 
He walks back to his bed.


Saturday, September 10, 2022

Nothing Remains

We gathered orphaned furniture 
after we eloped; furniture that should 
have remained orphaned. A bean bag chair. 
A yellow faux-fur, 70s style bucket seat. 
A yellow, 70s style couch with fabric
as tough as burlap that the previous owner 
assured us had seen a lot of sex. 
Chairs and a table with a flame retardant top. 
A 70s style, pedestal lamp with a yellow shade. 
(We loved the 70s, though neither 
of us were alive then, but the yellow 
coordination was unintentional.) 
The only piece we chose to buy, new, was a 
Sponge Bob Square Pants plastic end table.
 
That was 20 years ago, and Sponge Bob 
is all that remains. His gap-toothed 
smile stands out among our curated furnishings.
 
In a dream, my dead grandfather said, 
“Don’t get rid of any long-term clothes, 
any long-term anything.”
 
But he’s no longer here.


Thursday, September 8, 2022

Coming and Going

The thought of the elderly behind the wheel is a horror, 
until I think of them at dinner, pushing food off the plate 
and failing to land spoons in their mouths. 
Watching them walk? Good Lord. 
I’m just waiting for them to lean a little too far forward 
and torpedo their heads into a wall, or worse, a coffee table. 
They’re pitiful. They can’t do much of anything for themselves. 
God forbid they have to hand you a pen and paper. 
I do envy their eyes, though, 
how they look as if they’re seeing everything for the first time.
 
The thought of toddlers behind the wheel is a horror, 
until I think of them at dinner, pushing food off the plate 
and failing to land spoons in their mouths. 
Watching them walk? Good Lord. 
I’m just waiting for them to lean a little too far forward 
and torpedo their heads into a wall, or worse, a coffee table. 
They’re pitiful. They can’t do much of anything for themselves. 
God forbid they have to hand you a pen and paper. 
I do envy their eyes, though, 
how they look as if they’re seeing everything for the first time.