TODD ROBINSON

Pine WiltFebruary slinks through your nights, the windows dark with dreaming, drought-broken winter in traction again. Soon you’ll be an old man with hair like dirty snow, the yellow grass you used to daily shave given over to poems in the pale angles of your crevassed face. Fatherand mother shuffled off to the great Greek restaurant in the groundwhere she drinks coffeeblack blood and his mustache cannot unfrownitself. Meanwhile, you put on pounds, watch the concrete birdbath crack and the crack lengthen. The peace lily wilting in its woven basket. Againyou fire up the dented kettle, watch cardinals fritter a backyard cherry tree. Her starlight and singsong warmed these rooms for so long. Now she’s gone, moon’s drum over the vines where you scattered her coffee grounds. Water hisses. Sirens warp the street. Soon, summer will broil away the days you have left to count. Still time to clean the garage. So many square feetof forgetting. Call it good.Call it good enough.
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