THE CURVY RAMBLE

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The curvy ramble
With its fallen infantry of leaves
Lit by the epitaph of the sun
Does not lead me forward.

Every step,
Orchestrated by
the final gasp of
A snapping twig,
Escorts me back...

To my mom,
Waltzing with her 
Carpet sweeper partner
Singing with Sinatra
Who crooned directly to her  
From the cathedral radio of her 
Bobby Soxer heart
Still dreaming of kisses to come
Despite the sadness 
That raged through her veins
Like an uncontainable prairie wildfire.

To my dad,
Slapped silly by Skin Bracer
And the slow death hours of a
Salesman
Sneaking Chuckles
Like the boy he secretly wished
He could be again
Behind the citadel of an afternoon newspaper
As he sank into the mother arms of his chair
Whose cushion had
Memorialized his head 
Like the hand and shoe imprints at
Graumman’s Chinese Theater.

The moments that come to me
Are like that battlefield of leaves 
That lie along with the ramble
By the thousands
when they were still 
Fresh recruits 
so green 
And hopeful
And cherished by the wind
Whose secrets
I can resurrect at will
Or when I feel
The unbearable sadness
Of my mom
Or when I wish
Like my dad
That I could be that boy again.

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