The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

my father holds
his favorite drink

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…