Upturn

Do you remember the hollow sound
of foot on floorboard echoing through the dim house,
the cardboard boxes stacked?
The Victorian bundled with character,
its fieldstone foundation flooding every April
like clockwork? Do you remember
how he smelled when we brought him home,
how we quaffed his potent mix of baby, gladness and
impending shit? 

The 9/11 news burst every heart, but ours
especially.
Your brother, AA 11 over Manhattan,
his unscuplted self
fluttering on wings through windows,
into the nostrils of the sick —
no one ever asks of that:
do you remember?

In a different neighborhood,
a boy named for a dead man
plays in his new backyard
beneath the burly maples —
and do you know?  
Nothing will ever beat
that smile, the hello of the upturned glove
catching the ball out of a clear blue sky,
as if by surprise,
for the very first time.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Upturn

  1. boababpapers says:

    Beautiful in its gentle irony that reminds
    how we overlook and lean ourselves into
    weight of forgetfulness.

  2. perlygates says:

    this poem is sad and beautiful.

    • gammaword says:

      R, your comment is so interesting — if someone said to write a poem as you describe, I would look at them blankly. But what you say, when I look at it with fresh eyes — yes! Thank you R for stopping to read and comment, I deeply appreciate it.

    • gammaword says:

      Thank you so much for stopping by to read — I’m loving this comment thing. Really means the world to know you read and appreciate my poem. Thanks!

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