The Jamaican man sings about housing no on can afford. Hereditary diabetes and people are being forced to choose affording insulin or food. They say soon planes like Miami will be under water. Someone hands a baggy full of jelly beans to their child. The picking seasons are going to be so off in this mini ice age we’re living in. Bean bag chairs are expensive studio apartment furniture. I reread our letters and can’t imagine how language has gone bankrupt in such short time. Kids can’t read cursive or non digital clocks Laundry isn’t hung outside anymore. Kids really can’t roam neighborhoods on their bikes. I would’ve had to have mom drive me to your house three blocks away. No one knows a good card game. This Thanksgiving barely anyone made eye contact with anything but their phone screens. I wonder if you’d still have faith to pray your rosary so meticulously nightly Religion has had some sour milk years Still in summer heat lightening is amazing to watch from the porch, with a popsicle, barefoot, eyes heavy dozing off to the beauty of something that has not changed in a world so different than the one we shared, before you went. Before I knew I could be so complex. Full of wars and losses and active shooter drills.
Oak Roads: Poetry and Musings 