the map

I pour my coffee into Gran-Gran’s
heavy,
bone-colored mug
and sugar it from the dish
which once sat on Granny’s kitchen table
They’re icons on a map
that lead me back to family, to home
and, strangely enough, to myself
not the 6 year-old me, sitting at Granny’s table,
eating Fruity Pebbles
while Gran-Gran read the paper and drank
from this mug
not the 12 year-old me sitting at the same table
elbow to elbow,
hip to hip,
with extended family at supper time
feeling adolescent and awkward and angry with them all
and certainly not
the 20-something me, packing up his family
in fire and fury to flee
that place and end up somewhere cooler
but the me,
now,
sitting here drinking coffee from Gran-Gran’s mug
careful to remember
not to stir it with the sugar shell from Granny’s dish
totally at ease
with the place
and people from which I came
and longing for the day
that I can finally
return home

disposable

I wonder how many vegetable peelers
are sitting in landfills across America
relegated to this ignoble burial ground
because of a crack or chip or slight mishap
which rendered the tool momentarily useless
but could have been revived with
a screw, some glue or a variety of other clever measures
but it’s not just the vegetable peelers
which give me pause but nearly every
other item our hand touches through the day
mass produced plastic and polymer pressed forms
which make up the new American legacy
cheap, convenient, fragile, disposable

12.07.09

This morning, long before dawn
while you were buttoning your shirt
were you thinking that one day you’d like a job
that didn’t require a uniform?
Or maybe one that didn’t drag you out of bed
hours before your wife?
Or were you just happy to have work
with Christmas coming
so that the requests your boy and girl made
on Santa’s knee would be filled?
I’m sure, however, as you smoothed
your shirt and tucked it in
you had no idea that
before your first delivery
the morning light would find
three holes in that shirt
as the rain from the ground
and the blood from your body
soaked it from within and without

chatter

the constant clatter of lips and ideas
the incessant vibration of air around my head
my ears are sympathetic
and my head fills
I’m dizzy
I speak of the latter with mixed emotion
as I love imagination but weary of its work
my intelligence loves to dance
but it also loves
a good nap
Such a lofty matter brought to words
another protestation, a sermon, a verbal revolt
my lips are tingling
my tongue dry
in proxy
I prepare my patter, sharpen my words
and flirt with temptation to wag my own silly tongue
my nerves, frazzled, frayed
I will not join
I keep my peace

watching

Watching through the vertical rectangular window
as they scurry around her ICU bed
flooded with that unnaturally white hospital light

Watching the clock, two ticks forward, one back
as I wait for my wife and kids to return
their five minute drive takes at least fifteen

Watching the doctor as he lays out, with compassion
our options, extended not to save a fading life
but to give dignity and grace to the lives who will go on

Watching the final assisted breath leave her chest
and everything becomes suddenly still
and I understand why stillness makes us all so afraid

Watching the parent’s name tag fly across the ICU
my fury quickly tempered recalling where I am
I pick up the tag and apologize quietly, they all understand

Watching myself, phone in hand voice trembling
making calls that I never wanted to make
spreading a fleece of grief across the country

Watching my wife and me sleep, television on
to forestall the dreams that would come
she on the couch, I on the floor beneath her

Watching everyone watching me, I’m talking
white-knuckled grip on the podium
I tell them why “Why?” is an unnecessary question

Watching my wife decide, at the last moment
that we should be the ones who lower her
into that place where she will be until the end

Watching us, the week of years past
seeing the shadow that it has thrown over us
we grope in its darkness, but we still press on
    

that place

I was just sitting here
thinking
that there’s a small
piece of land
that I’ve probably never
seen
and, more than likely,
never will

however, barring
something disastrous
or
eschatologically significant
I will be there
when I’m done
maybe even longer
than I was here
trying not to be done

If I walked past it
would it know me yet?
would it hum
some sympathetic vibration?
Would I stretch and yawn
and not know why?

I always find myself
thinking about such things
about the best friend
I’ve not yet met
who will shape my life
in a direction
I haven’t imagined

about a painting
still just raw wood
and oil and
pigments still sitting
in a can
or even in a seed
of plant ungrown
which will define a period
I’ve not come to

about the house where
grandchildren
will visit and scream “Mojo”
running down the hall
looking for me
who walks that hall today?
Are they happy?
Sad?
Is the house empty and
webbed and dusty?

So, now I think about that final
place
that chunk of earth
where grass grows
and bugs crawl
as totally unaware of me
as I am of it
and while I’m in no rush
to find it
it makes me smile to know
it’s there.

the valley

The hazy orange moon hangs high over head,
eerily beautiful,
and I know it’s not safe to breathe.
Ash and smoke
clot the air and
smudge the stars from the sky.
We scramble for safety,
swiftly moving from door to door,
not inhaling too deeply
or too often
until we are safe inside.
Our lungs rattle and our bodies melt.
Life has been put on hold.
We live in Gehenna.