Yes, it's still raining
or raining again.
It stopped long enough
for me to go to the girl's father's house
to scrub down her bathroom
and make up her bed,
a favor to him, to her, to myself.
The right-hand flowerbed is a marsh.
(no, it is an engine)
The pink and blue hyacinths
I didn't plant
seem about to float down the hill
of my yard, to fall into the storm sewer,
to travel to Malta
I remember now
why I'm thinking about my father.
It's nearing that time of year
when we took his last cruise.
(I am wrong. It isn't an engine. It is thunder.)
I'm filled with a beautiful melancholy
that feeds into a poem-in-progress.
Miles Davis plays on my iTunes.
Tone will shift in a minute.
It's nearly time to retrieve my tired teen
from the high school.
We should go for that ordered scan,
but fuck all, I just don't have the energy
to fight a waiting room
to get confirmation that her back is healthy.
I change my mind again
about school/not school/where school/why school/purpose.
It's all about the poetry. That's what I need to remember.