[poem] One exit from home
Here’s one that came out of Thursday’s Volume workshop on mythology and fable.
One exit from home
It’s funny. The day we put gran’dad away,
I thought- without the rotted woodblock and
The toothpaste smell of sap, his exhausting
Daily promenade through pines, he’d convalesce
And buck-up bright as flashbulbs, soon enough.
His rest home’s just one exit from our
Home, big parking lot, no stops or turns.
It’s practically faster than walking down
The block, and I come every other day.
I sold the backyard lot, where he once chopped
Those filthy logs, and bought him bookshelves.
Whole libraries of picture-books so he can leaf
through virgin woods and balding prairies-
The best photos greenbacks can buy.
Instead, he fingers them, the pages, listlessly.
He lies bedridden, leering at the lawnmowers
And gardeners that work their way across the window-
pane, he mumbles tearfully about some ax he’s got
to grind, calls nurses ‘Babe,’
and something ‘bout a big blue ox.