Poems

The attic smelled like dust and boards And summers shut behind old doors. A baby bed, a picture frame, A trunk with no one’s written name. A hat with netting, one old shoe, A lamp with one thing broken through, A rocking horse with one bad eye, A stack of magazines gone dry. The sun […]

The rain came tapping on the glass Like little feet that wished to pass It slid in crooked silver lines And made the yard look full of shines The trees all shook their dripping heads The drops bounced off the flower beds The porch steps turned a darker brown The clouds hung low above the

The card rode home inside my book Like bad news trying not to show. Just folded paper, red ink marks, A few short words lined in a row And still it felt much heavier Than books or coat or lunch or shoes. It felt like someone took a ruler To things a person ought not

Saturday is best of all. No one yells out down the hall. No one says to comb my hair. No one says to get up there. I can stay in bed and hear Cartoons crackle bright and clear. Bowls can clink and cereal spill. Time can sit and keep quite still. The whole house feels

Patches on the porch again, Curled up like a ball, One eye shut and one eye half Open at us all. If I tiptoed very soft He would raise his head, Blink at me and tuck it down Like he’d rather stay in bed. He was white and brown in spots, Soft along his side.

Rain on the bus window made the whole world run. Trees ran. Mailboxes ran. Telephone poles ran one by one. Cows got wiggly. Houses bent. A stop sign melted red. Everything the bus went past looked half-alive and half-unsaid. I drew one line with my finger through the fog on the glass and watched one

When the clothes came in still warm, Patches always knew. He’d come from nowhere, quick as rain, Like sneaky old cats do. He’d jump right in the basket then On socks and shirts and things, Turn around and stamp it down Like he was making springs. My mother said, “That cat has nerve.” I said,

My pencil is a pointy thing It writes of birds that fly and sing It writes of kings and queens and snow And lots of things I do not know It gets so small from all I write It almost disappears at night Its yellow coat gets chewed and scarred My homework makes its whole

Patches did not come that night. His dish sat full by the back step and the porch light made the boards look bare in a way I did not like. I called for him by the hedge, behind the shed, near the road, down past the place where the ground dipped after rain. Nothing. I

My grandpa had a radio That sat beside his chair, A brown one with a cloth front part And knobs worn smooth with care. Ball games came out of that old box. Preachers came out too. Late at night the voices changed And songs came low and blue. He’d turn the knob real slow sometimes