MOMENTS OF SILENCE

Something about the moment, the exact
brightness of the sun’s rays, a delicate degree
of the slightest breeze through broken limbs of
the pine trees-the slightest scent of their sap,
just enough to make me remember my father.
It’s happening a lot these days, you know.

Sometimes it’s a cardinal on a chain link fence,
the scent of fresh brewed coffee after dinner,
slow moving smoke from a neighbor’s chimney,
a shiny white pickup truck in the parking lot, or
a few words strung together, a certain phrase,
a song playing over speakers in a grocery store.

Lately it’s the little things, maybe it’s a stage
of the grieving process, ministers speak of this
at funerals, psychologists write about it in books.
It stops me in my tracks, I think about my father
and the others who are long gone- the old ones,
aunts, uncles, grandmothers, and grandfathers.

I go to a lonely place, for a bit, but snap back quickly.
Please don’t worry about me; I keep going on and on.
These times are messages, little taps on my shoulder,
faint whispers saying, it’s alright, alright to miss them.

ABDUCTION SCENARIO

They imagined a break in, an abduction,
figured a young woman had been snatched
while loading her groceries and thrown into
an old pervert’s panel van to be a sex slave.
They’d called the police and waited for him.
Two Shop-Rite grocery store workers, serving as
crime stoppers, neighborhood watch, good citizens.
Looks of disappointment feel on their faces as
I walked to my Jeep with its passenger door open.
They commented on the fact that I was a guy.
I told them how I loaded up my groceries but
must’ve forgotten to close a door when I ran into
the Pet Store. Last week I’d done the same thing
at work, but without so much uproar or drama.
They explained how they’re prepared for this,
what they thought happened, how they got cameras,
how I couldn’t leave, I’d have to prove it was my car.
When the cop rolled up, he didn’t want to see papers,
he knew it was just a case of an absent minded guy
who didn’t close a car door and a couple of grocery store
workers who'd watched too much Law and Order or CSI
hoping to be part of something big this Saturday morning.

ONE MORE CALL

Sometimes we’d call each other on holidays.
Most of the time we meant to, but didn’t.
We never sent each other birthday cards and
probably never took notice when looking at
a calendar that it was a day to call each other.
A couple times a year, we spoke on the phone
when he had a spare moment or when my wife
reminded me that staying in touch is important.

Now, these days while driving and looking out
across an open field, I think about how much
I want to tell him, how much I would say,
if I could have just one more conversation.
We’d talk about the weather, old times,
relatives, his grandson doing well in school.
Each day, I say to myself, like so many others now-
If only he was still alive. I’d call him again, and again.

THIRD WEEK IN JANUARY

Today they came to pick up the dead in a shiny
white Mack trash truck from our municipal complex.
Some of these trees have been on the curb for weeks.
Once the center of attention, focus of the celebrations
with its special corner of the living room, decorated with
ornaments, some family heirlooms, souvenirs of past trips,
a child’s project from first grade, lights that blink sometimes.
Captured in holiday photos we never print, but take anyways.
Always in the background when we post to social network pages
and send as email attachments to the scattered and distant.

The driver and his young helper take turns getting out of the cab.
Carhartt jackets, fluorescent green caps, waterproof work boots.
Trying hard to look cool, not wanting to look like they’re working.
But it’s hard to look dignified when you’re tugging at the trunk of
somebody’s old tree covered over and frozen in a foot of snow.
I can’t resist rolling down my window when the truck drives by,
even though temps are in the single digits this Monday morning.
I want to smell the garbage truck, full of mashed up evergreens
going down my street leaving a scented trail like they’ve got a million
miniature pine tree air fresheners hanging from its rearview mirror.

MOST WINTER NIGHTS

I go upstairs before my wife, she always
has so much work to do and when I’m tired
I just go to bed. Before I climb the wooden stairs
I check the doors to make sure they’re locked.
I turn the porch lights off. I put the thermostats
down to sixty four. I peek in at my sleeping son,
say- “Catch you in the morning. Have a good sleep”.
Each night I like to open the blinds so that I can lie
on my pillow and look out and see the street light.
Sometimes I even crack the window a little bit to
listen to the cars glide by now and then across the
slick pavement from the melting piles of snow.
I close my eyes and pay tribute to my grandfather
each night by saying his simple bedtime prayer of
thanks-“Good ol’ bed.” Then I flip over my pillow
to the cooler side, feel at peace and drift off to sleep.

TEAR DROP

for Baldemar Garza Huerta

I knew he was sick for a while, but it
still comes as a shock to hear of someone’s
passing when they’d been in your life so long.
Like a friend from your childhood or a classmate.
No, more like an old Uncle that you watched age
before your eyes, getting gray, heavy, moving slow.
And of course I won’t forget that day in Sam Goody,
a wise ass salesman couldn’t resist saying-
You want what? Nobody still listens to that!
And when I sat in my living room that afternoon
blasting Wasted Days and Wasted Nights, I sang along
and raised my fist in remembrance of the good times.
But you know I couldn’t help crying when I heard the
first few twangy notes, the nasal sounding syllables-
“and I’ll be there before the next tear drop falls”.

ENOUGH

Did he ever say,"that’s enough poetry
about the birds and the oceans"?
Did she tell herself “I’m done writing
about the animals of the forest”?
Did the others ever just give up writing
about lost loves, death and regret?

More than once I sat to write and
found myself writing about all that
happened, all that didn’t happen.
More than once I stopped myself,
clicking the red X, and the No when
the computer prompted me to save.

More than once, I put down the pen,
closed the notebook, tore out the page,
tossed the paper to the side, looked away.
I wondered why I had this feeling, now.
Does it mean that all is forgiven or
does it mean I feel like it’s all been said?