Friday, November 21, 2014

A Dream After My Father Died

Someone is saying "uncle" this afternoon
in an effort to keep their arm
from being twisted off.

A distant relation
gives me a a cup of tea
while the voice
at the other end
croons a creep Latin ode about
the shape of the ear piece.

The dog I never owned
is gone and outside
the cement of the street
buckles and cracks.

It might be raining dust,
this could be the
end of the world,
there's a lifeboat in the tea,
yellow lamp light falls
on the pages
of the Sunday magazine
whose print is large
but blurred,
as though under wax paper.

The living room
has only three walls,
|and as I set
down the phone,
my parents
pull out of the driveway
in a shiny blue Buick Skylark ,
they drive slowly up the street,
no luggage
as far as I can tell.