Posted on 1 Comment

Perfect Things

Have they gone, this summer’s cicadas, unnoticed by me

after the pact I made to note each day their noisy presence

so that I would know, in the end, the last time I heard them sing?

Folly on my part I suppose as, truly, do I remember (no)

the last kiss of the lover who one day to shock and chagrin

called the whole thing off, the unimagined last words spoken

by that distant friend now passed on, the final toothy grin flashed

by the little white dog I dearly loved, the last time my

chubby toddler spoke with his sweet little boy impediment,

the last time his brother’s adolescent voice cracked

before it went forever deeply male?

Even aiming to know and hold them close,

I’ve lost those perfect things even as they passed.

Posted on Leave a comment

Little Chef

Young woman in a wheelchair, a little white dog

reminiscent of my Henry tethered along beside.

A service dog she trained herself to fetch things

for her and do whatever else perhaps open

the blinds in the morning close them at night

do the laundry maybe even the dishes maybe

cook up an omelet now and then or pancakes

flipping them one by one onto a blue plate.

I could picture my Henry doing so oh yes

and wearing a chef’s hat too standing on a

stool by the stove his bright adoring eyes

watching over all.