Signs

The signs were there for years, really.
For the sake of continuity, for safety,
we chose to ignore them. But one too
many rows finally broke that poor old
camel's back, and rage poured out,
broken levees spilling
a messy molten rot.

It's silly in retrospect. Twenty-seven years,
one child
and a dead parent thrown away
for the sake of how best to hang a picture.

You'll call your sister to talk, forget
the times you called her crazy, and
cherish every word. But we both
know why the dog hid under the piano.

And even though your parents still smile
brightly from the gilded frame on the mantle,
the Studebaker shining like new hope,
we all know how it ended. She wished
she'd chosen better, and he went to the
luau in a bright cotton shirt, before the dirge
was even finished. He danced with all the girls.
You only live once. Thank God.

And the Studebaker's rusting at the junkyard,
only good for parts. Fewer every year.
So I set my sights for home, taking into account
El Nino's summer tantrums. Bought gas that's
too expensive for this war-weary world, but
surrendered, for there's nothing else to do but drive.

By the time I pass Arkedelphia you'll have faded
into a waking dream, and I'll pick up where I left off.
Exceptfor the child whose grace will never die.
And when I lie in my grave looking out at the
passing sky, I'll thank you and hope she finds
what I never did, and once found, knows what to do
with it, without anyone's help or hindrance.
Just knows.