I am glad today is dark. No sun. Sky
ribboning with amorphous, complicated
layers. I prefer cumulus on my
morning beach run. What more can we worry
about? Our parents are getting older
and money is running out. The children
are leaving, the new roof is damaged by
rain and rot. I fear the thrashing of the sea
in its unrest, the unforgiving cricket.
But that’s not it. The current is rising.
The dramas are playing out. Perhaps
it’s better to be among these sandpipers
with quick feet dashing out of the surf than
a person who wishes to feel complete.
Fathers in the Snow
After father died the love was all through the house untamed and sometimes violent. When the dates came we went up to our rooms and mother entertained. Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night," the smell of Chanel No.5 in her hair and the laughter. We sat crouched at the top of the stairs. In the morning we found mother asleep on the couch her hair messed, and the smell of stale liquor in the room. We knelt on the floor before her, one by one touched our fingers over the red flush in her face. The chipped sunlight through the shutters. It was a dark continent we and mother shared; it was sweet and lonesome, the wake men left in our house.