New Writing

RESURECTION

A hardboiled egg peeled at 4:33 am,
a week past Easter, purple, cardboard salt
shaker and full moon rising over Vanderpool
in a musty log cabin. The crystal river holding
the gift of the hills together like silver ribbon.
I was thinking about my daughter and how
I could have been a better father and asking
myself why work was the center of my life,
knowing it was too late for change.
I felt like the lost peacock wandering our street
every morning, all dressed up, plaintive call,
but nothing answers. The occasional squall
rolling in to wash life clean for a few hours.
Over a bridge the roar of two-wheeled
chrome and flame penises in from the city,
a rooster crowing somewhere in the bamboo,
but I wasn’t ready to wake up, not yet.