Almost Working

Here we go again       and yet nothing stays
the same       except the usual complaints
about dander on a cat-hair sandwich.
We press plastic leaves in a book to mark
the casualties of wars and fathers       recorded
far from home       in the flash photography
of blinding sunlight.
 
That’s how I learned to be happiest when
alone       watching the clouds dry on
a clothesline       pinned with cutting boards
and their stains.       Motion detectors sway
in the breeze       as if they’re being tickled.
My little family likes the taste of vowels.
 
The inclusive will never be inclusive
enough.       Sharks trail a minivan running
low on gas and provisions.       The police
won’t be of much use here       as gravity
eventually gets its way       leaving behind
mouse droppings and the sequins shed
when friends go electric.
 
Though I’ve never seen a tornado
in person       we can reenact the damage
wearing raincoats over our aprons
and sipping a Coke.       Some boys wander
by mistake.       Certain predators only hunt
at night       finding an extra set of extremities
near the back of the forest.

ALAN GILBERT