That Forgotten Home
A poem to earth
I write poems to earth
as if we’re divorced
and still sharing the kids —
being cordial at graduations,
birthday parties, and swapping
Christmas mornings.
Yet I still love her,
though she’s moved on
with a better me,
one who had time,
and didn't spend it all,
in stories and meanderings
of eternity.
I write poems wondering
if she’s reading them
pondering that when
she sees fireflies
does she think of our first kiss?
Wondering, always wondering,
what she would say,
If we met again in Kansas City,
would she ask to see my laboratory,
and skip out on another date,
to hold my hand?
I write poems to all broken-hearted fools.
For the earth is the most
shattered of them all.
But I hope,
she’s taking care of my sister,
six feet down,
into the womb of perpetuity.
Is she warm?
Is she…
