“Yeah, I heard about it already,” Tom said. He didn’t look up. He was reading something on his phone. Then, although I had moved past him to the coffee, he continued, “Mayor’s son. This is gonna be a bad day.”
Who will I be ten
years from now? How
might
I see that vision,
do I want to
see
The devil you know
is the man who makes a law
that tells women not
to take their bodies
Now the scenes
I had not known
would remain
in memory
come back on
call, or maybe
unbidden
Back there where
the bay
window was,
behind
the washing
machine
and next to
the screened
porch. Back there
where the
records were.
Back there
I go in
my mind
and three songs
jump out.
The plants in the garden
test the night soil, search
the soil with sense beyond
With Spring in the air
but nights still cold
I wonder how
we will come out
of this sad, numb time.
Perhaps the memory begins with
eyes opening to yellow-blue-white daylight.
Perhaps the memory begins as
the towers glow in the window by the bed.