I have two coffees
at my desk: one that's cold, and the new one, still hot to my touch.
So that's the way I am today - on the edge
of distraction, carefully
trying to match words to my pictures.
Below my feet, the dog snarls lying on the floor, afraid
of movement, my daughter's constant ministrations.
You are a patient - this to the dog,
but she could mean me. She doesn't know
her help isn't an answer.
*
I watch my neighbor pamper his boat, the full-sized one,
not the toy collectible. We wave at each other,
the same old pleasantries exchanged. At the funeral,
the marines had stood stiffly proud
in their dress blues. At the front of the church
a Christian rock band played some gospel tunes.
The minister said don't be afraid to console them
in the weeks to come, don't be afraid to speak
about the death of their son. The need
will still reside in their home for many months.
I can't get past hellos and talk about the weather.
His boat's alive - rich maple facade reflecting the sun.
*
My sister-in-law's father is dying hard
in Iowa. An accident loading liquid fertilizer.
He's a hero -
saved a young man, held him down in an alkaline
bath to neutralize the chemical spilled.
Forgot to save himself. Acid burned the upper half
of his body's skin. Scoured the lungs and ate them
away. Sixty percent? Maybe worse. He can't talk,
the throat burned. Only the slightest
pressure of fingers, their crackling skin telling her
he's still aware of himself. We've been told
don't try to call for the next three days.
*
I see their car last night, on Interstate 70,
racing east to his intensive care room in Des Moines.
My brother drinking cokes. Driving past 80 mph.
She's in the backseat with the kids: her hyperactive
3 year old, his one year old brother and the baby
at her breast, days old, hungry for milk.
*
Boxes are a daughter's drums behind my chair.
A song's being made. Or a play. The doctor is in.
Paperwork's being done. Scenery drawn.
I'm waiting for the poem
I want to write about angels.
*
