More Noise Worth Writing Down
My son had too much screen time today,
yet I still gave him my phone
after his tablet died,
reminding me how some parents buy
goldfish regularly to replace the dead ones,
desperate to keep words
like “death” dry enough
that it would never dream
of sleeping with the fishes,
but my six year old son says few words,
so his smile is the day at the beach
he never asked for
and the imaginary roar of make-believe waves
another reminder how we can drown in silence
only if we choose to.
Smothered by the Open Air
Charred wood gone cold
because the fire has burned out,
and smoke gone from sight,
distant as a memory of a first kiss,
when sweaty palms clutched
at the shapeless darkness
we call “young love,”
but we can never keep hold of it,
leaving fingers to eventually go numb,
only to search for a pocket
for warmth and
to try to reassure ourselves we still exist,
while trying to forget the lies
told by touch that turned night
ablaze,
until it wasn't.
One of my Last Nights in Whycocomagh
I remember being drunk
enough to think the night sky
polluted with tiny specks of flames,
only to clean it up
with cigar smoke,
and a friend
pointed out the fireflies,
even though his sense dulled
by the same canned sunlight
we lined up for Fridays after work,
as if the darkness that easy to control.