by Bill Yarrow
I knew my mother would die by the weekend
when she declined to answer my questions
about her parents or her youth
I knew my uncle would die a pauper
when he grew obsessed
with drafting a will
I knew my grandmother was becoming senile
when she lost her appetite
for playing cards
I knew my father was irreversibly old
when he crashed into a mail truck
trying to turn into our drive
I knew America would be a colony again
when it forsook consensus
All rights reserved.
A version of this poem appeared in Used Furniture Review on December 5, 2010
Thank you, David Cotrone!
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).