by
W I L L S C H MI T T
I spoke to my father, the dead one
about the colored glass blowing off
Paula’s porch. I mentioned the voice
lessons, working from home, the blue
gloves.
It would be easier if I wrote to
embellish details, change anecdotal
references to current events.
Folding the lip of an envelope
seals in privacy.
.
A cloud the color of a horse
covered my rearview mirror
as I drove to the store. Deep
discounts the last thing
on what’s left of my mind.
Since becoming the man he fashioned
I notice trilliums, search the waves
for what’s coming and wonder
if he knew how many times
I’d wash my hands.