The Weber is grill still, front teeth cracked, spilled
legs airing indecently on the flagstone
a mark of last week’s violent spent wind
our neighbor saying his dock got knocked, lost
then bonded with the bottom of the pond.
Some things lie suffering until they’re spied
which is like the skylight frame that’s fraying paint
water damage seen when spring sun seeps in
like your stomach spotted behind your heart:
canned goods boxing pasta for cabinet space.
Your doctors say some things will have to change
organs need pulling down, stitched and rearranged
I gulp a green iron pill, breathe black tea
and sentence penciled worries to wither
inside a Chinese vase, jay blue and tiny.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 1.
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