Artwork by Autumn Riddle
Almost a Sonnet Written on Father's Day
They're all upset when I inform them
I plan to remain here, alone, in the house.
So, daughter arrives to fix things and fuss.
She dusts the shelves and moves my books
from beside the recliner to more proper locations,
cleans the fridge, reorders cabinets,
double checks expiration dates.Manic, filled with parental concern,
she orders her teens to restack my firewood,
badgers me to move in with her.
Order imposed to her satisfaction,
she bakes and cooks and fills my freezer
with plastic containers I'll share with skunks
and raccoons after she and the grandkids go home.
December Songs, On Repeat
Granddaughter is staying upstairs this week
with two college friends over winter break,
cell phones, iPads attached to them.
I love those girls but can't quite savvy
some of their Gen Z conversations;
am fuddled too by the weed they all share:
intense, I discover—though smooth, and quiet—
no seeds to pop and burn my shirts.All three are filled with concern for me.
Over and over, they ask what I do
with so much time alone in these woods
but seem to lose attention the second
or third dependent clause in my answer.
I start to tell them a story I read
about a guy who teaches poems
to inmates at a prison somewhere,
and while he hitchhikes home after work,
he catches a ride that leaves him astonished
when
their eyes and my words turn to snow.
