wondering why Louisville always shows up in my analytics
around these types of holidays and what you are thinking
when you read my ekphrastic golden shovel poems...
Since surgery, I've had a bad case of the scrolls—
and maybe you have too—
seeing the world in shitty little snippets,
so I try to put down my phone and read,
but I fall asleep to It's A Wonderful Life.
I'm hurting today, but complaining to you won't do shit,
so I just shut up because despite it all,
I am happy. I am happy. I am happy.
...Five emergency cookies later,
and I am writing poems to you but not,
because closure is an incapturable myth,
but all I want is at least 40 more Thanksgivings.
I can't help but think that with one too many scoops
of turkey and mashed potatoes that my belly will split open
and my guts will come pouring out.
At every turn, I am scared,
desperately hoping this is just the middle,
a marker in life's long list of stories,
that I will be share around the table
of many future Thanksgivings.
40 is not that much.
40 summers, 40 winters.
40 more birthdays.
And even just one more laugh with her.