I’m told I was the apple
of his eye. How small yet
comforting a thought this
sudden fruit of memory
amid the dry moods of
autumnal drift and drought.
I think I’m older now
than he was then.
I almost hear him
humming home from work
a clink of ice
a glug of amber booze.
I sense his
reaching out again
to grasp and lift me
with a godlike jerk
then dance me
as I stand upon his shoes.
1.
feeble fingers type:
in spring a young lad’s fancy
likely turns to love
2.
dinner tray for one
talking back to the TV
no news is new news
3.
burp, a little nap
to redeem the livelong day
sugarplum dessert
4.
fleeting radiance
limp now in the drinking glass
plucked dandelions
So where is the key you left right here
so you could find it easily, always,
but now it is gone? Perhaps it escaped
down the dark stairwell you descend
when deepening sleep has you suddenly
miss a step and catch yourself before you fall.
Is Mercury in retrograde? Did the full moon
tell the spoon to slip from your hand
between the bowl and the lip?
Why did the shoe meet the banana peel
at just the right angle? Or the pot turn
into an urn despite the potter? It was
the idiot factor: you were about to
swat a fly, when the fly
flew up and sat on the swatter.
The little women’s college
where we little women went.
A nephew’s obligation to
say thank-you for the gift I sent.
The courtesy of titles, surnames,
when addressing people you don’t know.
Predominance of substance
over show.
That public is what everyone
and private is what no one sees.
Books made from trees.
littleoldladywho.net 