poetry, photography, etc.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009


Mom is in the kitchen making Dutch babies—
instead of church on Sundays, we have breakfast.
I stumble in, fresh from sleep,

and see the table empty, the stove off, no one home.
I yawn and smile: she’s back again, the table’s set.
Go and get your brother, she tells me, Can you believe
that boy is still asleep? I pound down the stairs and knock

on Eddie’s door. Rise and shine, sleepyhead!
There’s no answer so I throw open the door,
ready to spring on him, but the room is empty
of furniture. Just a few boxes in the corner

and bare walls but when I rub the sleep
from my eyes, I hear a groan, I’m up, I’m up, and
We race up the stairs to the kitchen.

Mom has let the cats in from the garage and is
feeding them sausages. We tell her that’s not
good for them, and she laughs. Put on some music,
that Martin Simpson album.

but the CDs are gone with the couch and the stereo.
Where are they? with a hint of panic in my voice,
and her call sounds like it comes from far away,
the bottom shelf, but how could I have missed that?

Then the sweet sounds of Irish guitar fill the house
and for a moment it’s just me and
When I Was on Horseback. My family
and I sit down to eat but before the fork

reaches my mouth it disappears, the plates are
gone, and Martin Simpson fades away. I rub my
eyes, I blink, but nothing works. The dream is over
and I find myself alone in our empty house

remembering the wedding and my mother’s
new home an hour and half from here by car.
I want just one more breakfast
of fresh Dutch babies.

I return to my bedroom, still fully furnished,
and I crawl under my covers, turn on my
own Martin Simpson, and go back to sleep,
hoping I can drown in my dreams and never wake.


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