Poet Laundry

Thursday, August 29, 2019

Dalí looks at me

from across the room,

time melting as if exhausted

from the heat.

That look: like puppy dog eyes

pleading for a shift in the breeze.

But, no, I say,

don’t do that to me.

The darkness is coming,

so damp and rich I can taste it.

And soon:

spiders.

Reference: Salvador Dalí's clocks in The Persistence of Memory.

When the air is fresh

you feel it: you get stronger

with each breath.

Your son

is slicing oranges

and it’s so sweet—

he’s so sweet—the scent

of his golden-brown hair

warm with sun.

The old deck creaks a bit

as you walk on it,

cracked and weather worn

as you are,

but still here,

still here.