The leaves fell Into my backyard Which is tiny Compared to the backyards Of houses where I have lived
The leaves were dry by the time they hit the gravel Grass doesn't grow in this over-shaded plot So dry that when they fall They sound like chalk on a chalkboard Not as cringeworthy But not like the leaves we pressed into waxed paper Stored away in a book to flatten Or handed in for a school project These leaves were like time going by Like begone days of chalkboards and waxed paper Homes where I'd be forced to rake the leaves Instead of paying my association dues
It's a little removed, of course Death thoughts just make very unpleasant conversation After the age of 50 When you can't pretend you're Goth anymore The main reason you wear so much black Is it gives you the illusion of slimness
How did I get so off-track? That's me That's me Running from the dry leaves.
Copyright 2018 September 18, 2018 Catherine Powers
It's odd, the little things you notice when you're trying to fall asleep.
If I get up for a drink of water, I'll wake the dog, who will follow me into the bathroom and stare at me the whole time then follow me back to bed.
She's a licker. My face hasn't been dry since we brought her home three weeks ago.
I don't mind.
I mind.
A dog shouldn't stick its tongue in your mouth.
I'm not going to get up. I'll lay here with my dry throat until I feel it scratched raw, like swallowing a handful of sand I picked up at the beach we went to...
when? how long ago? before dogs before yardwork before dishes and laundry and "who left the cap off of the toothpaste?"
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeletePoem Reminding Me of Fall & Mortality
ReplyDeleteThe leaves fell
Into my backyard
Which is tiny
Compared to the backyards
Of houses where I have lived
The leaves were dry by the time they hit the gravel
Grass doesn't grow in this over-shaded plot
So dry that when they fall
They sound like chalk on a chalkboard
Not as cringeworthy
But not like the leaves we pressed into waxed paper
Stored away in a book to flatten
Or handed in for a school project
These leaves were like time going by
Like begone days of chalkboards and waxed paper
Homes where I'd be forced to rake the leaves
Instead of paying my association dues
It's a little removed, of course
Death thoughts just make very unpleasant conversation
After the age of 50
When you can't pretend you're Goth anymore
The main reason you wear so much black
Is it gives you the illusion of slimness
How did I get so off-track?
That's me
That's me
Running from the dry leaves.
Copyright 2018
September 18, 2018
Catherine Powers
4 A.M.
ReplyDeleteMy throat is dry.
It's odd, the little things you notice
when you're trying to fall asleep.
If I get up for a drink of water, I'll wake
the dog, who will follow me into the bathroom
and stare at me the whole time
then follow me back to bed.
She's a licker. My face hasn't been dry
since we brought her home
three weeks ago.
I don't mind.
I mind.
A dog shouldn't stick its tongue in your mouth.
I'm not going to get up. I'll lay here with my dry throat
until I feel it scratched raw, like swallowing
a handful of sand I picked up
at the beach we went to...
when?
how long ago?
before dogs
before yardwork
before dishes and laundry and "who left the cap
off of the toothpaste?"
We liked the beach.
How did we end up here?
Sept 18, 2018
Mike Fedel