|old locker face|
There is snow on the mountains,
cookies & cream--or fudge marble
i can't decide, safe in my seat behind
the rain speckled cafe window.
Men in ties & women in pants---
skirts in the closet, avoid the draft---
bustle passed, in conversation
with each other & invisible friends
on the other end of ear mics. My sons
run between the play place & the arms
of my comfortable chair---'dad, he
won't leave me alone, won't play fair,
The mountains are beautiful, but they will
wait, they have this long, so i watch
them--my youngest sits a bench,
made to look like a stone wall, watching
two boys wrestle, his lips forming silent words---
he will be a poet yet---
'i heard them say they wanted to chase boys,
you should go over & see,' his brother prods
& he is on his way when i wave, a blond,
a brunette, the girls don't even notice
'where are you going?'
'well, Logan said---'
'He also told you the other day to---'
'think for yourself, it's all you have got
sometimes & that way you've no one
to blame,' his brows bunch over the corner
of his eyes, in a crinkle of blue & he grins
girls already after another, he tackles
his brother---who screams, the mountains
still in the distance, maybe moved
just a bit to the left, on elbows now,
comfortably watching---the wind
their laughter rattles the window---
definitely fudge marble.
written for Poetry Jam