He gave me back my hard drives today
by the pond by the geese
by the free-range 3-year-olds who
don’t even know what “pandemic” means.
By their moms who don’t trust the geese, don’t trust
the two old(er) guys at the picnic table
with matching gray streaked
beards handing
a box
between them.
Wordless very much
like the cold warriors
they are.
They are cold. We are cold.
It’s a cold day.
I want to shake the box and the hard drives
and let all the
photos and movies of my kids
as kids rain down, coat my hair
like pixel dust with their music videos and
the sound files we kept of their
toddler voices with
New York accents
my beloved
lost characters from
“Our Gang.”
We put our masks back on when people move close.
Slip them over, up over our mouths.
We talk about how we’re still
making time for creative projects.
He can’t help me with my drives.
He has to work on his script.
I can’t read his script. I need to work on my poems.
We both need to work.
We sound like two people talking about how
the stores are closing soon,
and if we want to buy that shirt
those slacks, that stylish hat
we’ll need to get it in gear and
head to the mall.
Glad to see your poems. Vita is far too brevis. Unfortunately Ars can be too brevis as well. We turn out hard drive after hard drive of the stuff. I like to hope somewhere there is a digital deity that remembers every photographed sparrow that falls. Always good to see you!
Glad to see your poems. Vita is far too brevis. Unfortunately Ars can be too brevis as well. We turn out hard drive after hard drive of the stuff. I like to hope somewhere there is a digital deity that remembers every photographed sparrow that falls. Always good to see you!