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.