Saturday, August 6, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #134

Hawk Season Notebook #134

The clapboard house was appraised. Then the family moved. Cotton curtains. A closet-pisser brown pound mutt you loved. The coroner's children next door. You heard their toys came from the homes of the dead. When your bedroom was not bleach-clean, your toys went up the chimney in smoke. Smile and grumble. You saw a black snake in a nearby potato field. You were a moody child. An ingrown toenail... an office surgery did little to make your spirit fly. The old house sold in a blink. The mutt was disappeared. Your stepfather said, Don't press your luck. The new house was glazed gray... antique copper lamps... a no-context World War II Italian naval officer's sword over the fireplace. You were about ten. Someone gave your stepfather a clear wine bottle with a miniature sailing ship inside. Your mother gave him vinegar salad dressing. A Greyhound bus schedule came your way... a treasure. You understood the word Family as something On the Rocks.

1 comment:

  1. oh, dear lord I love that poem and it makes me want to sob. Thank you.