hid neath the table...
A long lost neighbor visited
with baby in tow-
oohs and aahs in remembrance
from Crony perspective,
a babbling coo both foreign and cute.
The past in reminisce revisited
and talk of aging parents and DNR,
the dying forest as a humorous
glint of the inevitable... and baby cries.
In burping sit and football fly,
I could not console the child of the future,
what once worked for mine failed to soothe
but mother love is still strong in the quieting.
A sensitive man with soul of angel
takes a turn and crying ensues..
To him it's not personal, as he gives
back and into the Mother.
Snickering chatter belies reality
of economic decline, hopeless aging
of parents and us... the visit concludes.
The Doro Wat is wafting from the kitchen
in spicy entice as ancient cuisine...
a check to the webbed connection
of the disconnected... a door left open-
my coney disappeared.
First floor and under the table, no where-
second floor with weights holding doors to the top-
no rabbit , no movement, frantic calling...
the yard is alive with sunshine and mocking bird,
a grackle pecks dirt then snarks with food on a wire-
Oh Otis... otie, little bub, where are you? In fear
I check the street, the yard, the neighborhood,
the house several times more.
Daddy circles an acre with snacky snacks,
he knows if the rabbit is dead so is my womanhood,
he was my baby, my only charge... I cry and cry and turn
off the nostalgia of Carly Simon... defeated.
When mascara has creased the cringe of laugh lines,
a recovery of the beady eyed hide in hands of the Savior...
he was under a futon on the third floor-
a sobbing relief and reward of carrots,
a punishment of Foo Fighters (loud for cony ears).
A big sigh to "Hanging on...
Dora Watt, a satisfied man, a squinty eyed nibbler-
womanly return from February temperamental stark...
he writes, he grooms, I thank my lucky stars.
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