Tuesday 3.49: Poem

Past seasons

The pokeweed out back
snapped off at the stalk
in a storm I slept through.
And this morning the shower
is empty, dripping stupid.
I sit on the front porch
with coffee, a broom,
and a grain scoop

to scrape and twang and keep
the alley clear.

It's worse in winter
when the hard, still ground
echoes
and steam off the body

is the body
transported

to the garage before,
where the smell of oil
converges with the shriek and clap
of an endless
hockey practice.

And my brother is in bed
across the room, or floating
out the window
to the persistent maple
where we'd meet
in case of fire.

Birds shoot
between layers
of drying sheets;
days go like airplanes
I notice overhead.

The sun goes down and the night
is the deep
part of the river
where you know not to cross:
A borrowed word,
sniffle and spit and

spring comes
like it just happened to be
passing by.