For Some Things Cannot Be Salvaged
The screen door
Of the lakeside cabin
Is carved with slices
The size of claws
From the jumping family dog
Of long ago
From which fish flies skim through
The moonlit din
Thinning
Themselves
Into those slots
Dropped
Like silver coins
Into the lamp light
Of the cabin
Hoping it’s enough
To re-start the cuckoo clock
Left for dead
On my old man’s wall.
Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2020
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