There was that joke of so and so's mother
And aunt driving all that way to visit him
Only he'd left shortly before on the bus
To the city, to home, a shameful misunderstanding.
Well, what were they to do. His roommate
Offered them a drink and a bowl of potato chips...
It's a great story when you're young. The son
So innocent, his roommate less so.
Though I'll admit it still bothers me
Sometimes at night when the air cleaner
Hisses with dirt, the chipping sound of the fire.
Back when we were poor no one trusted
Anyone—when they did, they shouldn't have.
I see that now. Rooms opening into other rooms.
The weather more dramatic. Outside the glass
Old mountains holding old granite...
Just a slow settling over time.
Burning cigarettes, slack skin,
Bargain shoes, bargain purses...
I've heard enough, she said,
Were you the roommate or the son?
  © New Issues |
  © Paradigm Press |
lives and work in Grand Rapids. He is the author of the collections Breath, Of Pines, and Night Weather |
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