"The jet skis would not quiet in the late summer morning"

Sometimes I write things that I only discover later to have written. Then I post a lot of them all at once. These posts are all that. And below is a poem I wrote after discovering my father's house (in which he died) had been remodeled. I can't even see it as the same home. It's incredible.

Also, one summer, I high-pressure washed ALL THOSE FUCKING DECKS. ALL OF THEM. For like $80. God I was a sucker.


"The jet skis would not quiet in the late summer morning"

The room my father died in is now painted yellow. The worn

carpet now torn up, replaced with laminate wood,

shiny kitchen appliances,

and three extra bedrooms.

A "lake house" for people with 

weekends of long emptiness

filled with the whir of jet skis

and frozen, rimmed drinks in 4-piece Crate & Barrel sets.

Whose closets are professionally organized.

Whose days are filled with the putter of

the daily sweepings they easily take for granted.

Long has the guitar in the corner gone silent,

and plastic plants shrouded in dust 

get shook loose the memories of their owners.

The throatless birds on press-board TV units 

maintain their heads

held 

in waiting.


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