​Loadmasters


After the boy finishes
his oatmeal, I let the dog in
to lick the floor. Encrusted
with the goop of milky
oats and chia seeds, Theo squirms
in his booster seat. I pass him
pecans from my own plate,
forking the last bites of quiche
into my mouth, a tactic
that allows me time to finish
as Theo leans over the arm
of the captain’s chair and spits
bits of masticated pecan
onto the floor and Sherlock’s paws
clickety-clack to lick
the same tiles a second time.
At the corner of Birch and Golfview,
I hold Theo’s wrist, his hand
loaded with sticks, pulled
weeds and fallen leaves. Garbage
trucks lumber up one lane
and down the other, hiss and swivel
around us. Their grilles tower
over my head, not to mention his.




Memory Gaps


Like Cindy who has no memory
of the year her family
exploded with the propane tank
in the trunk, Lili remembers
little of the bombshell day
of my diagnosis, how I wanted
no one near me, not even her,
and ate an all-beef polish alone
in the Costco cafeteria.
Now when I wait with the engine
running in the parking lot,
I pass our son in the car seat
a loaded bubble wand, rainbow
membrane stretched like a drumhead
ready to balloon around his
baby breath. He pops it
into his mouth. (So much
for that idea.) When I press
the refrigerator for ice, cubes
hit the rim of my Contigo
and scatter fire over tile floor.
I have yet to address the WWF
sticker attached to the back
corner of my study door, though
others must have tried
because its entire margin is tattered
white, leaving only the spray-tanned torso
and one tauntingly extended arm.





Mortal Kombat


As a kid, I got a letter in the paper
and never showed my parents.

I collected newspaper clippings,
war crimes, in my tackle box.

I remember watching the Siege
of Baghdad on the commissary

television at Compton Ridge
Campground. Shock and awe,

they called it. Now I can’t keep up
with the changes. Cork hot pads

go from drawer to cabinet, cabinet
to pantry. Theo’s always turning on

and off the lights. Years later,
I found the old arcade

where I’d thumbed quarters
in Mortal Kombat

converted for timeshare pitches,
the pool table and jukebox

replaced by pamphlets, posters
of condominiums.