The Times that Are No More

Lacrimae Rerum

You forget the worldcan quickly blur and wobble

at the chance landing, say,of a ladybug on the wrist,

its orange the sameas your old Volkswagen bug,

the boot and back seatfilled with boxes and what

your father helped carry:books, a green shaded lamp,

bookends, striped pillows,blue blankets and sheets,

hangered shirts and pantsyour mother pressed last night,

a new suitcase and threelightbulbs ("just in case")

he cushioned with wadsof the hometown paper,

your mother on the porch,her sandwiches on the front seat,

her face shiny and red,then turned to his chest

as you ease from the drivetoward a college four states away—

things buried for decadesuntil the ladybug landed,

cicadas screamingon a blazing August afternoon.

Back Again

Up the hill past our old house,across from the main gateof St. Joe's Cemetery          was always a flower shopowned by the Dereloosbut the last time I stoppedin my rented car at sunset and

absently shuffled inside,it had turned into a pizza joint—no bright potted mums this time.          Embarrassed,I couldn't walk out,          so I bought a small pieand a beer to go.

Near the statue of the carpenter,a worker of wood like my father,I stood in the sinking lightand chewed the meatless kindwe always ate on Friday.

I sipped the Bud my father liked,made small piecesof the crust and scattered themon the plot, a beige stubble,that was far too narrowto contain him.

The stillness was loud,the place deserted, birds settlingin the nearby woodsbut thronging

to the feeder he madefor the window of our tv roomwhere he laughed with my motherat sitcoms and the anticsof birds and squirrels thattomorrow, a Friday morning,would breakfast on pizza above them.