Poems

You are white cotton
wrapped around a barrel.
As you stroll down Broadway
on your tree trunk legs,
I’m near the edge of running
to match your forceful stride.

You are arms and hands
hewn from planks of wood.
As you lift me upward
to place me on the counter,
I’m near the edge of flying
through the tiles in the ceiling.

You’re a cappella background noise,
a mix of hymns and ballads.
As you’re softly singing
some tune you heard just Tuesday,
I’m near the edge of melting
like an ice cream cone
into the living room sofa.

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Larry, you jerk.
Dying in your thirties.
That’s so like you.

You always knew
how
to
push
my
buttons.

Did you bother to think?

Did it ever occur to you
that you can’t
come back
from
a fatal
heart
attack?

Of course not.
You had to play your joke.

Now I’ve got no one
to sing Poncho and Lefty with,
let alone Bohemian Rhapsody.

And what am I to do
when it’s one A.M.
and I want to eat breakfast
and talk about movies
and women
and strange things no sane person
could ever believe?

I haven’t had a good argument in years.
I haven’t raised my voice
or felt that heat rising up from my neck
in ages and ages and ages.

At the very least,
you could haunt me,
knock a wine glass off the countertop,
rattle some chains in my garage,
write insults with Carol’s lipstick
on my side of the bathroom mirror.

Jesus, man. Give me somethin’.

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She said deesh for dish
and feesh for fish
and I secretly longed
to be served fish on a dish
just to hear her say it
but I never got my weesh.

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I always eyed the kitchen door
on Sundays after church,
waiting for your head to appear
behind the plastic window pane or
against the screen in summer,
a little bit of Christmas once
a week for me it seemed.
I thought you ought to know.

Perhaps you did know, but I failed
to tell you and I want to tell you
everything, everything now I feel.

Your son became a man.
His voice is deep. His hair’s still blonde. He’s good,
and yet I wish you’d been here
to help him be good,
to make it an easier thing to be.

He married and made you a grandma.
I thought you ought to know that too.
It could be wish filled thinking
but I swear she has your smile,
minus the teeth made crooked
by a line drive baseball
too hard to handle.

They never mattered much, your teeth,
no more than the wig you wore
to hide your balding head.
None of that
made any difference.
You were still,
as always,
beautiful.

Did you know I thought that?
We all did. It’s just not the kind of thing
a brother often tells a sister,
but I think it’s time I do.

I have kids of my own, by the way. Yeah,
you missed all that. You missed a lot of things
like my college graduation and my wedding
and all the confusion that followed your leaving.

The Sunday breakfasts disbanded. We didn’t know how
to set the table or how to be together anymore.
We sulked for awhile, then we fought for awhile,
but we each found a rung and pulled ourselves up.
So, even though you weren’t here, I thought
you’d want to know that things got better.

Oh, and I’ve recently taken up poetry
which reminds me
I need to end this
or I’ll never stop writing.

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