These old streets drive through me;
pieces of sky look like raindrops,
so no one panics when they land.
I think of sackcloth and ashes,
remember all the spent people
who dropped away as rocket stages
or spilled into galaxies like cinnamon,
and I realize too much of my life
is about managing regrets.
This town wouldn’t dare
make another sales pitch.
I’ve never seen a thing in real time –
not the belated light of the sun,
not the cobblestone church
that switched saints in my absence,
not the slow turnover of cells
holding my soul’s long term lease.
I can still do the flamingo
long enough to pull on socks,
but I can’t figure out the key
of the ringing in my ear
or why the left side of my face
dropped more than the right.
I arrive, see there are no marigolds;
they were my mother’s favorite.
I enter with a gentle knock,
hear him rustling on the sofa,
the superhero of my youth,
grounded by grief and time.
Hi Dad, I say from the foyer,
and try to convince myself
this is not a premonition.
