As The Night Held It's Breath

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I’ve lost a few things
along the way.

I’ve lost the sound of my dad
laughing at Crazy Guggenheim
from the sag of his summer chair,
which come summer
wore a tropical skirt.
A floor fan droned like a monk’s prayer,
a freight train rumbled past
with the weight of the nighttime surf,
and Adolph,
the neighborhood love-struck shepherd,
howled at the moon
while fireflies danced
like Bolsheviks in Petrograd.

I’ve lost
the scent of my mom
rehearsing her mournful daydreams
as she misted herself
with atomizers
that ruled like royalty
on the court of her bedroom tray
in the heart of Queens,
while the shiny knights of lipstick
guarded the round table.

I’ve lost
the grumbling of my sister,
her hormones raging through her
like Kamikazes,
leaving her adrift
in a harbor of teenage wreckage.

I’ve lost
the throttled silence
of my grandmother,
her sanity
long gone from the yard,
taken by the crack of a tragedy bat
that sent her to the bleachers
with the invisible mothers
who had lost their children too,
left to stare
at an empty field
where no one
ever came home.

And I’ve lost
the sighs of girlfriends
as their granny dresses
floated down like parachutes
to the bare wood floor
of their bedrooms,
where they waited for me
as the night held its breath.

As the Night Held Its Breath
by David Steven Simon

I’ve lost a few things
along the way.

I’ve lost the sound of my dad
laughing at Crazy Guggenheim
from the sag of his summer chair,
which come summer
wore a tropical skirt.
A floor fan droned like a monk’s prayer,
a freight train rumbled past
with the weight of the nighttime surf,
and Adolph,
the neighborhood love-struck shepherd,
howled at the moon
while fireflies danced
like Bolsheviks in Petrograd.

I’ve lost
the scent of my mom
rehearsing her mournful daydreams
as she misted herself
with atomizers
that ruled like royalty
on the court of her bedroom tray
in the heart of Queens,
while the shiny knights of lipstick
guarded the round table.

I’ve lost
the grumbling of my sister,
her hormones raging through her
like Kamikazes,
leaving her adrift
in a harbor of teenage wreckage.

I’ve lost
the throttled silence
of my grandmother,
her sanity
long gone from the yard,
taken by the crack of a tragedy bat
that sent her to the bleachers
with the invisible mothers
who had lost their children too,
left to stare
at an empty field
where no one
ever came home.

And I’ve lost
the sighs of girlfriends
as their granny dresses
floated down like parachutes
to the bare wood floor
of their bedrooms,
where they waited for me
as the night held its breath.

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