Michael Dylan Welch

long workday . . . I sit in the garage till the Zeppelin ends

a different cool than the Douglas firs redwood shade

moment of silence— dry ice fog drifting to the end zone

yellowing maple— I feel for my bald spot

chill in the air— leaves swirling by an election sign

funeral procession— a classic Harley with an empty sidecar

guitar solo on the car radio— my fretting fingers

breakup talk — our breath mingling in the winter air

my blue bathrobe worn at the hook spot — New Year’s Day

clear-cut pines— concentric circles filling the pond

short day— the smell of wet mittens drying by the fire

chairs overturned on dusk-lit tables– a pause in the broom

long sermon– biscuits and crayons passed along the pew

bills due– in my dream the endless stairs

unpacked box on the kitchen table— foreign headlines

traffic stop the neon buddha tries to claim diplomatic immunity

family reunion — the camera timer goes off too soon

late show on TV — I finish cleaning up for the cleaning lady

fox on the trail — your hand held up to my chest

only so far onto the beach tracks of a wheelchair

a firefly’s glow against her palm passed to mine

night jog— sparks from a train rounding a turn

toll booth lit for Christmas — from my hand to hers warm change

Valentine’s Day– she reminds me to fasten my seatbelt

first date– letting her put snow down my neck

first snow … the children’s hangers clatter in the closet

meteor shower . . . a gentle wave wets our sandals

first cold night– the click of your domino as we play by the fire

relaxing my arm butterfly on the bullseye

summer moonlight the potter’s wheel slows

crackling beach fire– we hum in place of words we can’t recall

spring breeze– the pull of her hand as we near the pet store

tourists talking in several languages– the glassblower exhales

reading in bed my pulse flickering the lightly held bookmark

accumulating snow– oven mitts praying on the counter

toll booth lit for Christmas– from my hand to hers warm change

steady breathing . . . a kiss on her cheek ends the story of Christmas

first star– a seashell held to my baby’s ear

the silent wind chime– my nephew blows soap bubbles over and over