SIX WORDS, SIX STANZAS

The steamer trunk might have been my grandfather’s, but I don’t remember seeing it in his dark little room that smelled like old clocks.

If I sit for a long time in this chair the right words will appear. Like magic. Despite the evidence, I still believe

that. Believing in anything now takes a toll. There doesn’t seem to be a god, for instance, who gives a shit about us.

It’s August. The dawn chorus is over for the year. Sometimes, one dusty robin lands on the lawn and hops around. The worms

have burrowed down under. Everyone is exhausted by the heat, the drought, the plague, waiting and waiting for some kind of relief.

My grandfather had a small life, and yet he made himself a bit of joy. Magic tricks. Walks. Old friends. Keeping all those clocks ticking.