Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Thank You


Thank you

Laurie,
for bringing over chicken soup
and lifesavers
when I was sick, washed out,
alone in my single apartment.

The sound of you
clanking my pans, the squreak of
a can opener
listening to my tinny radio
on a sunny day in May
fixing me a treat in the kitchen--

does something to me. 
outside              somebody's thumping
reminds me of a boy,
12 years old, playing basketball,
the backboard
an abandoned road sign

it's my brother,
wearing a blue Tshirt
never a white one-we had no white sheets
white towels--even our dust bunnies were red.

from my bedroom at home I could
shut my eyes
and hear flies buzzing on the screen
someone downstairs talking to the cat
the hardback books settling
into the bookcases,
someone else
to call the electric company
when the power went out
someone else
to light the woodstove
cold mornings,
someone else to sit beside me
when I was sick, and tell stories.

Thank you Laurie, for clanking pans
for reminding me of the house
I lived in once, the one where everything
had a sound,
everything
had a color.

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