Static fizzles gray all around me.
The baby knows how to say “ssh.”
I wish I could make it quiet.
Days pass when it’s all I can hear.
I see a leaf on the ground and it
strikes me that he would have
Pulled it apart. Turned it over to
see what’s living underneath.
Times like this there is a spark
that crackles through the buzzing
drone of the nowadays, the after times.
The days that aren’t alive
like they were when he was.
I absorb the projects that come home
in backpacks full of uneaten
peanut butters. They demand
(Let’s remember what was told to us
that didn’t actually happen.) And
let’s be thankful.
Sidewalk appears underfoot like it was
just drawn there and then, for
me alone. I don’t know where I’m stepping.
There has always been a template.
At least a loose sketch.
Gathering those who want to be alone
and apart. We’re directed to celebrate.
Gift lists have holes now. We can’t know
how to fill them and so we won’t.
This fuzz I hear muffles nearly all else.
Who knew the sound of static was