by Bill Yarrow
A wrench flies through the air and cracks your
windshield. It's the unexpected that makes life so
smashing. Like walking along a lake and seeing
apes come out of the water. Like talking to a physician
about the half-life of hope. Like waking up to the sound
of pleading. There are many ways to begin to die
but one is not surprise. We all have an ageing uncle
who offers in his handshake the strength he still pretends.
He was married to a petty woman of endemic energy.
They sired your most obnoxious cousins. I wish I had
a mirror implanted in my brain so that I could see my life
less directly than I do. I had a dream the daylight needed
repainting. I called my uncle in Kentucky. He said he'd take
care of it, but then he died when his car T-boned a dove.
All rights reserved.
A version of this poem originally appeared in WRENCH (erbacce-press, 2009). It was republished in Poetry International (print mag).
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).