THE ZOLOFT SPEAKS TO ME (Sertraline)
Isn’t there a song you sang as a boy
about a looking glass
and mockingbird?
Hush, little baby . . .
That’s the one.
Don’t you recognize me?
Can’t you sense
the quiet and sleep in that song?
The soothing comfort of covers?
Mother’s reassuring weight
on the edge of the bed?
That’s me.
Mom can’t be here now.
She sent me
to sit right by your nightstand,
pass this tiny pill
and Dixie cup
in my soft
and steady hands.
AMERICA LOVES BOWLING!
The PBA visited a local lane.
My father won a shirt.
The front read, America Loves Bowling!
A smiling pin wobbled.
He joined a league that day,
wore the shirt each match.
He pointed to Loves
and strutted
with every strike and spare.
I drank a coke, kicked my feet
as the scorer X’d his frame.
One Saturday after league,
a little drunk,
he came home
and raged in the kitchen.
Dishes were not done.
He smashed a tumbler
on the terrazzo.
My mother stormed -- What the hell?
All the thunder in that house.
That house, with its hardwood
swept to a shine.
And my father in his shirt,
red-faced and teetering
like a glanced pin.
About Paul David Adkins:
Paul David Adkins grew up in South Florida and lives in New York, a rare species of reverse snowbird.
No comments:
Post a Comment