reprise

The Last Bed We Buy

Grateful not to find myself

disembodied hovering high above

this stark cake of soap, gazing down

laboring to put names to faces­­­, the couple

so familiar, side by side, palms down, still as

miller moths displayed on pins, I drift off  

to the drone of Bill or Ted, rumpled as

a morning after motel king intoning

soft or firm versus memory foam

or pillow top, hypoallergenic …

the last thing I hear before we fall

fast asleep spooning on a plush queen,

not too soft and not too hard, but just right,

satiny raft to ferry us the last stretch of river.

Waving like the Queen we float past the last new

roof over which we will preside, nod in solemn

recognition of our high efficiency gas furnace

apt to burn on years after I’m gone, applaud

politely what jolly well may be a farewell

drive north through the Tunnel of Trees

some biting October afternoon, weep

softly for our old squirrel chaser sawing

soft imprecations to hips gone tender some

blustery April night dog years from now, blow

low Bronx cheers in a fond adieu to life mediated

through screens. Even Bill or Ted knows that grace

lies just ahead around the next oxbow, leaves us

to dream, two dormice cupped in a leaf, rills

and eddies bearing us seaward, buoying us

downstream on softly rolling shoulders. 

 

     

On the anniversary of my father's death

Wrestling My Father

The scent of gasoline and lanoline lingers

mingled with sweat and Old Spice, menthol

Winston’s from back before you gave them up

for good persist in half-life beneath Vitalis

sheen and Listerine, waves of Bengay radiating

off red hot coals of trapezius muscles seized

inside a white V neck tee from Monkey Wards,

thin cotton canvas worked with small fevered hands,

greedy, slathering claim, leaving myself open to

reversal and the pin, sting of ancient rug burn

still gracing my cheek, palms pressed to face inhaling

what little I can of you by lung full.

not again!

The Last Bed We Buy

Should I be grateful not to find myself

disembodied hovering high above this stark

cake of soap, gazing down, laboring to put

names to faces­­­, the couple so familiar,

side by side, palms down, still as miller

moths displayed on pins, our salesman,

Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after

motel king, reading my mind, musing

on this pair of worn porcelain dolls painted

in chipped shades of buyers’ hesitation? 

Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top? 

Hypoallergenic, drones Ted or Bill, the last thing

I hear before we drift off spooning on a plush queen,

one not too soft and not too hard, but just right,

a satiny raft to ferry us the final stretch of river.

Waving like Queens we float past the last

new roof over which we will preside,

a nod of recognition for the last new water heater, too. 

Applaud politely what very well could be a farewell

drive through the Tunnel of Trees one biting

October afternoon.  Weep softly, wistful for the poor

dog snoring soft imprecations to hips gone tender

some rainy April night dog years from now. 

Blow Bronx cheers, fat, wet, and sloppy, as we bid

adieu to life mediated through screens because 

even Bill or Ted knows that grace lies

ahead, just around the next oxbow, leaves

us to sleep undisturbed, two dormice

cupped in a leaf, rills and eddies bearing us

seaward on softly rolling shoulders. 

 

     

reprise, rework

The Last Bed We Buy

Should I be grateful not to find myself

disembodied hovering high above this stark

cake of soap, gazing down, laboring to put

names to faces­­­, the couple so familiar,

side by side, palms down, still as miller

moths displayed on pins, our salesman,

Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after

motel king, reading my mind, musing on

this pair of worn porcelain dolls

painted in chipped shades of hesitation? 

Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top? 

Hypoallergenic pipes Ted or Bill, the last thing

I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen,

one not too soft and not too hard, but just right,

a satiny raft to ferry us the final stretch of river.

Waving like Queens we float on by the last new

roof over which we will preside, a nod of recognition

for the last new water heater, too.  Applaud politely  

our farewell drive through the Tunnel of Trees

one biting October afternoon in the not so distant future.

Cluck our tongues for the poor dog snoring soft

imprecations to hips gone tender some coming

rainy April night.  Blow twin Bronx cheers,

fat, wet, and sloppy, as we bid adieu to one last

shameless act of televised hubris.  Grace lies

ahead around the next oxbow, two dormice

cupped in a leaf, rills and eddies conveying us

to the sea on softly rolling shoulders. 

 

     

Two On A Mattress

The Last Bed

I should be grateful not to find myself disembodied,

hovering high above this stark cake of soap,

gazing down laboring to put names to faces­­­,

the couple so familiar, side by side, palms down,

still as miller moths displayed on pins, our salesman,

Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after

motel king, reading my mind, musing

on this pair of worn porcelain dolls

painted in chipped shades of hesitation. 

Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top? 

Hypoallergenic, says Ted or Bill, the last thing

I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen

that is not too soft and not too hard, but just right

for ferrying us down this final stretch of river

past the last roof we’ll put on the house,

one last drive through the Tunnel of Trees,

the dog snoring soft imprecations to tender hips

on his old bed some rainy April night.

Two dormice cupped in a leaf

rills and eddies conveying us to the sea

on softly rolling shoulders.