Mark
Tonight, I don’t feel the full
weight of my body
when I hit the mattress.
Like before
I buried my dad’s key,
I wasn’t a body
but a torpedo clunking down
ready to explode
And send bits of heavy metal
all over my room
and through the walls
to my mom’s room
Where she sleeps alone in a king
-sized water bed that must
feel wide as an ocean
beside her.
Tonight, I want to wake her up
and show her how light
I am, like she could lift
me up herself.
It sounds crazy but I picture
the two of us doing
an old-fashioned dance,
twirling around,
My hand on her small back,
steering her away
from the clutter of stuff
we should
Go through one day, things
like my dad’s big oak
desk under the window,
or his stacks
Of Outdoor Life magazines
that are so covered in dust,
they look exactly like
tombstones.