I could write a poem that no one
could tell was for you. It would
just be about a rotting wooden porch,
and a tall oak tree with a cherry red
baby-swing hanging from a stubby branch.
I’d describe the soft tone of your maternal voice,
the way you held me close on your left knee
tucked between the arm of the green recliner
and your warm chest, and the murder
of fruit flies in your half glass of blood red wine.
I could write about a blue van: oil stains
on the driveway, tire divits where it
stood still for months, and an angel hanging in the
window now hidden under a scribbled on
sheet of paper.
Me at the edge of the driveway,
arms fiercely crossed,
eyes glaring at your
new, big, red, truck.