I can't stop thinking about them:
the dead squirrel,
the doves whose droppings
dot my freshly painted fence--a graffiti
in scatological code beyond my ken
the unmarked graves of Sham,
Krishna, and Chauncey--loyal pets
who never got the needle
the Zinnias up from seed who feel ambivalent
about being alive--one day drooping, the next day
appearing to thrive
and the jacuzzi,
empty now except
for her memory,
the daughter whose name
I will not say, who fell asleep in that hot tub
and did not wake up
perhaps seeds sewn so near
don't know what to make of warm water's
perverse powers
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I can't stop thinking about them:
the dead squirrel,
the doves whose droppings
dot my freshly painted fence--a graffiti
in scatological code beyond my ken
the unmarked graves of Sham,
Krishna, and Chauncey--loyal pets
who never got the needle
the Zinnias up from seed who feel ambivalent
about being alive--one day drooping, the next day
appearing to thrive
and the jacuzzi,
empty now except
for her memory,
the daughter whose name
I will not say, who fell asleep in that hot tub
and did not wake up
perhaps seeds sewn so near
don't know what to make of warm water's
perverse powers
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