Crusade

I sorted them by shape and size,
Even chose to alphabetize.
My process slow and systematic,
As I placed each item in the attic.

A gauzy film of dust amassed,
Over these memories of my past.

Mistakenly I let fall, my line of defense,
And the dust disappeared at my panicked expense.

I retreated at first, like the girl from before,
But the stinging of old was too sharp to ignore.

‘Guess the war ‘aint over’, I have to say,
And so I battle the demons of yesterday.

Poem Response to Dad's Poem

I barely remember life without loss,
When clouds weren't just clouds,
but a fish or a cow,
Blind now, I march to make it across.

I do not ever reminisce,
these days are gone,
tears all
They fill up my cardiac abyss.

The Couch

A couch.
A symbol the world recognizes,
And criticizes, easily.
Legs crossed carefully,
I let it pull me into its core.

As I open my heavy mouth to speak,
Each offering tumbles away without grace,
Or hesitation.

Dark roast becomes cold on the adjacent table,
Neighboring the Kleenex.

Most times I avoid using gaze,
She knows.
I know.
It is how I do.

I open the red door with white teeth,
The door that conceals spinning treasures,
A hard job to decode?
Maybe.

She reminds me of her past advice,
I remind her of my past.

The carpet needs to be cleaned.
Is that a cobweb in the corner?

This couch and I go way back.
It relishes the taste of my salty sadness.

I am reviewing the situation.
Checking off each item on my to-do list.
Did I mention,
The aggression?
Or when I forgot the guidance she bequeathed?

We both check the illuminated digital clock.
Eyes meet at once.
Embarrassed.

I sign the check and pat my old friend fondly.
Until next week.