Three bright blue eggs in pieces on the grass
the last strand of string sways,
tethered to the holly branch.
The nest, intact and abandoned,
must have blown sideways
attacked by gales of wind
a sudden spring storm.
He places the nest in a safe spot
just under a skirt of low branches.
He hopes the birds will find it
but in his heart he knows
the robins will not return.
He is saddened by the spring rain,
bringing life to so many,
and an end to these few.
He looked me in the eye
then he lied to me
his lips never sneered
eyes never flashed.
But he lied.
Then I could see it –
the lie – just beneath
his skin, moving around,
as if it were some parasite
burrowing, becoming part of him.
And when he smiled
it almost disappeared.
When I said I love you
all I could hear was the lie,
chewing away inside him,
burrowing deeper.
I want to write a poem
but I can’t.
It’s time, Dad says,
to move into a smaller place.
I need less stuff he says.
I want to write a poem
but I can’t
begin to fathom
selling the house where
we all grew up.
He sends me some boxes.
The attic is nearly empty,
he says, let me know …
he says, when they arrive…
I want to open them
but I can’t
Pandora’s box of memories
I may not be able to recover
what I unleash.
Everything hangs in this moment
like sunshine on that porch corner
where our bikes used to sit
gleaming turquoise and white streamers
ready to be ridden.
Exactly like that.
A plague of tourists,
nay a terror of tourists.
In pestilent parades down the Avenue.
Tired toddlers in Easter best,
drag cheap souvenirs (sure to break at home).
Screaming gaggles of teenage hormones
clog walkways.
Metro trains vomit globs of strollers and backpacks.
Monuments groan under the girth of their numbers.
Camera lenses steal our souls
while we dodge mis-directed map readers.
This vernal plague has no cure.
There is no inoculation for the locals,
no tourist-icide spray to prevent
walking six abreast on sidewalks, or
hanging from statues like moss in a swamp.
All we can do is take refuge in our unknown quiet,
private gardens of delight.
