IMG_2423for Tim Britton

Not content just to kill,
the mountain lion north of Carson in the Gifford Pinchot Forest
takes a doe with a broken leg,
drags her by the left hind hoof into a fir tree
and leaves her there  to cool a while.

Last night I dreamed I was painting a house the color of an apricot.
Ladder raised twenty feet, set into soft ground.
A dream ladder made of wood left out in rain for 20 years.
The grain split and slick with mold.

When I look up, my father is standing on the roof ridge
dressed in golfing clothes of the 1970’s
twenty years younger than I am now.

Lime green slacks held up with a woven belt.
Red nylon shirt, yellow spiked golf shoes, hat the color of a lemon
that matches the shoes.

Now he is back on the ground, looking very concerned for my safety.
Holding the ladder, my father is asking me without words
not to climb it

but I say I am ready now as ever will be.


11 thoughts on “LAST POEM

  1. But now “I am gone the way of the Sears and Roebuck catalog! ” is the last. 🙂 I used to love that catalog when I was a kid. I sat and read it for hours. We’re getting to be fossils. 🙂

    • Big, big part of my childhood. My grandparents were too poor to buy Christmas presents, so we used to sit with them and pick the things we wanted out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. They would cut the pictures out and put them in an envelope for the future. Year after year the thing I wanted most was a black leather saddle and bridle with silver adornments. On my death bed I will have to be careful not to remember the words, “Silver Saddle”, or I will have to come right back here again, reborn in East Texas in 1950. 🙂 Second to that saddle was a genuine replica of a Civil War mussel loader. And when Christmas was over, the catalog went to the outhouse.

  2. It just occurred to me that you may stop writing poetry
    You are a poem that will never end
    THE way you think, the way you feel, the way you live
    OR are lived
    IS poetry
    The way you love Carol and sing about her
    IS poetry
    The way you care for stray animals
    AND for Freddie
    IS poetry
    SO it really doesn’t matter if you write another word
    THE breath coming out of your mouth
    Dear Uncle Charlie
    IS poetry

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