Monday, August 21, 2006

Poetry: Tim J Brennan


funny how things disappear:
lilacs by early june, deep lavender
blossom stems reduced to mere stubble
on thin chin branches; Halley’s comet,
off somewhere every seventy-six years
like some kind of celestial wooley mammoth

dirty and dusty steve mcqueen on a mud caked
motorcycle; hydrox cookies. cold milk, poured
into three tall pink plastic glasses

i walked to this home on pitt street in 1964
from washington elementary in shawtown
i walked, watching ambulance lights
disappear down our narrow street
tiny sister lisa tucked into its
windowed cradle never to return
mother wouldn’t budge from the nursery,
almost dissolving behind the thick oak
door until father came, hornet like,
in his yellow and green 1953 Bel Air,
hurdling the front hedge like an olympic athlete
on our black and white Zenith.
i’d never seen him do something
that bold that masculine

i was in awe

funny how things disappear: a mother
playing peek-a-boo, fading back behind
soft mother fingers, knowing a child will
be smiling, knowing behind her empty hands
a face needs to be wiped, blankets need to be folded,
applesauce needs to be scooped into small bowls,
and first birthday pictures need to be taken,

all before bedtime

just in case something comes up
and all those mother chores,
all that wanting,
just disappears

~Tim J Brennan can be reached at this email address.

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