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.