|Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Leashed to a foot of the rocking chair,
Sherlock's lost his freedom to range
and sleeps away his living days.
Downstairs, my newborn son snoozes
in the sleeper. I am a father.
Outside, a neighbor's house catches
the brunt end of sunrise.
Our chimney cuts a crisp shadow
over the closed Venetian blind,
knickknacks lined up between upper
and lower sash. She lives with the ghost
of her dead husband. My wife is at work
teaching children to use their inside
voices—to whisper in her ear.