Changed
We wait for the school bus
in crystal air. October is a day away.
We discuss Halloween costumes,
what you would like to become
for one night out of the year. Changed.
I can feel the excitement of going
to school again. The way I used
to feel every morning while getting ready
as the sun was just barely licking
the inside of the window and the frost
forzen on the belly of the maple leaves.
We hear the bus on the next street,
its heaviness braking in time to gather
the children. I want to hug you again.
But I don't. I let you talk with your friends,
one last laugh before the seriousness
of classwork begins.
I walk back towards the house. My side
empty where you used to fit. I listen as the
acorns pop off the trees. It's the loneliest
sound in the world.
The Poem My Father Never Knew He Wrote
The poem my father never knew he wrote. Of
words, promises, wishes.
Control anger--be open,
love wife and kids more.
Finish windows in bedroom
finish trim in rest of house
make shelves for closet
hang curtain on door.
Go to church.
Fix yard
clean basement
get money straightened out
paint living room
change door casing.
Quit smoking.
Winterize boat
put in storage
think about selling.
Think more positively about future
have something to show for it.
Hang mini-blinds
repaint bedroom
fix up kids' rooms.
Save money.
Pray more.
My husband subscribes to Money magazine
but we don't have any money.
Sometimes he calls me from his job at the bank
in the middle of an aseptic afternoon
to find out how things are going.
He must know that I get bored sometimes.
That the only two guarantees in my life
are laundry and dishes.
One day I might join the
Carnies at the county fair
my next stop: Walla Walla, Washington
where I'll live on hydrated hot dogs
and cinnamon-coated elephant ears.
I won't wash my clothes,
I won't cut my hair.
I'll work the Ferris wheel
I know the significance of things
going around and around,
day in and day out,
hour by hour.
At five, my husgand will walk
through our aluminum door
and dinner will be pretend meatballs
disappearing in their own thick gravy.
--Colleen Little
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