Remember when we would go to the nursing home

and glue puzzles together and trade books worn out

and weighed down with the annotations of

literal generations – we painted sunflowers

and lilies for each room with a little old lady lacking

family or support. We made such a routine out

of being there to name the hummingbirds whenever

we lost someone to the garden and chasing fireflies

for the old men in walkers still in love with the

dream versions of their wives and kids – already passed.

 

I don’t know why the smell of pine sol and lemon

are so distinct to me when the memories were

actually so bright and the lessons that were

inherited within those walls so valuable – I don’t know

why I can write poems for Shirely’s mom

but when i want to write for shirley herself or

mourn Johnny (I’m late to that party too) the pen

just dries up so completely it can’t be salvaged

and the computer freezes and the internet dies

and the storm drags all my ideas to a city that

will never appreciate them the way I did.

 

Her birthday is coming up soon and she hasn’t

returned my calls for the last two years, but

I’ll go ahead and give her a ring anyway.

 

Wouldn’t you?

 

-M. Rene’