And in other news

The reporter tosses gruesome headlines 

at the camera.  

I can tell she‘s reading

the teleprompter

line for line. 

Her blond hair drapes down

her chest, stopping on her heart. 

She has a good make-up artist.  

Together they can rule the world.  

“Ten shot dead,” says she

as if the sorry dead of ten 

were a sorry nest of mice.  

I can’t imagine her

as somebody’s mother.  Real life

reeks too much for her.  

Real life smells like tuna.  

But she drones on. 

Ten other victims wounded.  

And in other news, the Lakers win

another round.  

And  I think, she ought to say,

People, people

This is the 34th mass shooting 

so far this year.  

She ought to add—And the year is just beginning. 

She should say this in a voice that’s breaking.  

She should touch her heart and say,

I cannot bear to talk about the Lakers.

For that, come back another day. 

But there’s no chance at all 

of changing how she 

arranges her words 

till they taste ok.  

She forgot what truth sounds like.

The pay is that good.  

Follow me

 They’re all gone now

and Self, we have almost forgotten

the excitements in this house

Three generations. 

Three merry, quixotic kids.  

A black Lab that loved salads.  

The baby suddenly 

on the scene (after the daughter parachutes

into skid row)—and then 

there are more of us 

to fall in and out of love with 

every day.  

Every day. 

More dental visits, more hands to hold,

more apologies, more praying in the middle of the night. 

In the night.  

Blurry days between one decade 

and the next. 

Sometimes doves sing in our windows, 

sometimes cop cars stop by.   

Sometimes silence just waits 

out there. 

Waits. Waits. 

Grandma dies. 

The kids find mates.  

And one copper sunset, the husband 

sits still as a moon rock.  

A moon rock.  

And for the first time, dear Self, 

you make coffee for one.  

Just one. 

And for a long time, you read the paper feeling 

him in the next chair 

until one day truth 

seems less paranormal 

and you remember his green chili omelettes 

only on his birthday.  

His birthday. 

And then you ask and ask and ask

when should we leave that house 

and we wait and wait 

for a signal

from the forest, from the ball of yarn, 

from the olive oil, from the twigs, 

from the dead squirrel on the sidewalk.  

On the sidewalk. 

Until that rainy night 

it comes in the candle, 

in the red halo of the wick. 

The house looks different. 

Less familiar. Less young. Less ours.  

Less. Less. Less.   

And we are overcome with the vision 

of  a small boat, a light wind on the boat, 

a motor humming:  

Follow me. Follow me.  

So we empty the closets, 

pack the trophies, 

shut the blinds, 

and lock the doors  

Lock, lock,  the doors.  

And I remember him. 

Dear husband, Where do you 

sleep tonight? Tonight? 

I want to believe. 

Believe. Believe.