Cottage Closing
Back to the city we go
We leave you winter ghosts
To sway away on your hanger hosts
Until next year or never more
It depends on my poor dad
If he can dress himself
Next spring
Still in his UAW gear.
I stand for a moment in his empty closet
Like a hat stand in a cardboard box
His callused gloves resting in a drawer
And outside on our deck
The rocking chairs race
Side by side
Like horses jockeyed with October wind
Boards creaking beneath
My lures sparkling like mother’s jewelry
Jigs spoons plugs
Hung below
In the shed’s metallic flaps
An autumn tambourine
Shaking at the rumps
Of a pair of summer swans
Pounding their wings in liftoff.
Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2019
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