God and Google

I asked God and Google for guidance.

The secret to grief. 2-year-old articles

in men’s magazines lined with ads for

dating sites and ED meds. And Job’s answer:

were you there?

Pieces of a puzzle half-lost—scattered

amongst junked vacuums, couch crevices,

and partially-digested dried-out piles of dog shit.

Mangled survivors paint vague impressions of the whole:

Barry Sanders retired healthy at 30.

Bonheoffer hung days before Allies arrived.

Jesus wept. Otis Redding, Karl Barth,

and Ken Griffey Jr.

Lodge-pole pines and the 1988 Yellowstone fire.

And your 60 years of intermittent tumult—

estrangement and depression—ended

peaceful sleep in a rocking chair.

Parts enough—not a full picture,

no real answer or address,

but a question and a neighborhood,
a feeling and mood, direction and guide.

The Last We Spoke

The last we spoke, I apologized

for mixing-up the date of his dinner.

He understood, mentioned next time:

a platitude, a half-believed article of faith.

I was a day late. It would have been the last I saw him.

A dinner party olive-branch—a tentative start,

first gesture to begin to mend the relationship;

more than monthly texts about sports and fishing.

But then his heart quit. The roommate found him

in the morning, hands folded in his rocking chair.

I was left with a collection: disorganized

regrets, his knap-sack, and fishing hat.

Codes and memories to be deciphered and filed.

Impossible task, trimming and adjusting a thread:

a baby with square block and circular hole;

furrowed frustration, piecing together cluttered details—

a story to carry  travel-sized meaning.

But the story is unfinished. My dad died

alone in the chair he lulled me in

when I was an infant.

My dad died in that chair, believing

I was ashamed. Now I’m left

Dating and Dentistry

The dentist took a second look,

x-rays are difficult reads. But I knew

the Frosted Flakes and Slurpees

I just kind of hoped to get away with

those few moments—an easy sigh and slouch,

foot tucked under the crook of my knee.

Unclenched and relaxed, savoring

hopeful thoughts on quiet car rides.

But her eyes dropped, digging

a bunker in the sidewalk. I knew

the drill’s grinding falsetto. Still,
the in-between was sweet.