I was watching the
wind’s last playful
tug on the
might bring when
the phone rang. It
was the sound of
for work. My words
of “don’t lose hope”
seemed so empty
after the call. Maybe
not to him but to me.
All I could do was
pray about tomorrow.
Hope for tomorrow.
the high ceiling fan
moves quietly its shadows
fade as the sunlight
pulls away from the
windows a few bright patches
of lawn let go then
the sun slides down the
side of a car leaving a
trail of silhouettes
Saturday late lunch
as our eyes locked and smiled would
also be dinner
I’m cooking dinner
pasta meat sauce with mushrooms
Friday comfort meal
Hurricane Laura hit us about one in
the morning. The noise and the heat
awakened me. The power was out.
It sounded like there were two big
powerful locomotives moving at top
speed. One flying past the front of
the house and one in the backyard.
The two large elms and giant oak
in the front cast elastic shadows.
I sort of slept from three to six or
so. A cold water cleanup. No shave.
No electric but the stove is gas. I used
a lighter and boiled water for coffee.
I went to the top cupboard and took
down my old Bodum French press.
It was fine for the two of us. We moved
into the TV room where I opened two
windows and the side door to get some
air. Hot air is better than no air. A light
breeze crisscrossed the room. The rain
stopped. By dusk the wind started to
die down. We talked back and forth all
afternoon. I cooked as the light faded
from the windows. We ate by lantern.
Back in the TV room, she shrieked.
Her fan came on. Power was back on.
God is good. The gift of another day.
due while we sleep O God
make it a light breeze
Laura. Bracing for storms coming our
way. The first one sort of fizzled out;
second one did not. Waiting for Laura.
I’ve been singing that schmaltzy ballad
from the 1944 movie of the same name
since last night. Whatever happened to
my mother’s copy of Vanity Fair, I’ll
never know. I remember the picture of
Gene Tierney in it and Gary Cooper in
1934. It was a favorite book of mine as
a kid. Laura was a favorite, too. Still is.
One of the few good memories. But
this poem can only end or begin with
one word. Laura. “Laura is the face in
the misty light…”
our cross on the wall
is simply a reminder
of God’s faithfulness
if cars could fly you’d
be loose from Opelousas
and back home by now
cook or MacDonald’s
then we’ll settle in and watch
the next Miss Marple
I was going to
say it’s too hot for squirrels
one stands munch stop stare