Statistics

Diseases of the Heart

Every day
thousands of us succumb.
Statistically, thirty-five percent of all deaths,
though it seems like so many more.
Self-diagnosed since high school,
since Donna really.
My diet doesn’t matter…
doesn’t alter the odds.

Sideyard

Unearthed sheaf of paper
from between books bound
for storage somewhere unseen.
Divorce is displacing them,
delivered behind rolling metal doors
and bulletproof locks.

A poem, then
discovered today
in a hand I recognize and
a voice that seemed resigned
to realize
that once in a lifetime trips
came far too often for my wife
even then
what continent was she on without me?

A poem about a load of dirt left at the side of the house.
Placed there by the shovel load
with no other place to go.
We moved it from one side to the other
farthest from the gate,
years before.

This:

Now it is not much of anything really.
A dirt path alongside the house.
I planted some things there once,
roots I thought might know the soil
Spread some pebbles too
from an unknown river.
Watered occasionally.

Amazing things really:
dirt, water, sun.

That sideyard could deal with neglect.
I spent more time there than most anywhere else
in that house.

I had cleared it
over the course of two nights
Scoop by scoop
Into the pickup truck
and to the town dump
alone.