memo

I want to write fables for my grandchildren and their daughters and sons, but I won’t. They will have difficulty understanding them. The trees I planted didn’t come with instruction manuals and the lines of code for the outdated machines had worn away. Pen ink leaves permanent marks on palms and graphite wears away too fast. Voices crack and falter. They wouldn’t understand anyway.

virgil

Your spine cracked

like the binding of the books

you stretched upon

asking me to read you

like lines of Virgil

and I know you

watched that man

wearing the dirty trench coat

and like a blind man

your hesitant palm to mine

reading into the future

talking of things to come

flocks of grey geese

born with knowledge of ponds and lakes

of where they are supposed to be

but some don’t follow

black sheep

with feathers

your smile

falters.

okay

I remember

the worn cotton feel

bitter chocolate taste

story-telling sound

But

I also remember

the rainy day memory

the tip of your tongue speech

painful procedure face

clueless frightened smile

So yes

I think

I’m okay

after all.