Two Poems

Taken

Lenny's Aunt Brandi had opinions
like bottle rockets going off in a kitchen.
When her house needed paint,
Aunt Brandi and her sisters, Vi and Beth,
argued over the color. It took eight years
before she chose yellow. She feared
making a mistake, felt she'd have to keep
apologizing to her house.

Single or married, she kept
everything neat. The box of Charley Pride
albums stayed in the credenza that held
important papers that she rarely read,
the mortgage, the will, a tea-stained letter
from her first husband Rick. Lenny

got bored with his cousins at family parties—
he'd go in the living and sit by Aunt Brandi
who always occupied the same yellow chair
with the stiff back. She said, Lenny,
you look like a dog sitting by my legs.
Go and play some baseball. Lenny
disliked games that required
winners and losers. He preferred
bottle rockets. When Aunt Brandi died,

he asked his mom if she would mind
if he took the yellow chair. His mom
never liked it and gladly let him take it.
He never sits in it.
It's taken.

 

Autumn Moon

Love is a ladder,
a rung or two
missing. Climb
at your own risk.
You might

be fine. Or
have a bad fall.
The autumn moon
would gladly
pick you up,

but her arms are
mist.