I could be talking about anything on the phone: mail I can't write, mushrooms, detours from road construction; then I'm told my voice sounds far away and exhausted. There are two holes on the angled part of the ceiling. I know exactly how long they've been there and which end of the bedframe hauled upstairs was responsible. Coming down with a load of laundry in my arms, I slipped and missed the bottom steps. We are so lucky to still be here, having survived storms, leaks from the roof, daughters running away from home, layoffs. The millennium bringing everything to an end; the shortages of hand sanitizer, toilet paper, Sriracha. At night, often I can't tell if something might have triggered the motion sensors in the yard or if it's just the moon being full again and coming through the blinds. Cans of Spaghetti-Os sit in one corner of the guest room beside bottled water. I am always sorting through boxes of paper. There is rice and tea and fruit. I want fish but I will have to scale it. Will it ever be done? Driving home we always take the way that leads as if straight into the river. Ships cross the gaps between trees. Herons make nests and drop poop on parked cars. We make a right at the end of the road.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.