in the garage

Robert’s papers were in a box
in the garage
near a make-shift table
on which were my skates
older than the child
I never had.

Still
what were they to anyone
save for him, dead,
or me, half-alive then.

I drug around these things
heavy on my heart

lost them
when the house sold

left some
behind a purpose

told them stay.

I miss my skates
I miss my brother more
I do not miss those things
that made my heart sore.

Slithey Tove

She will not go
with Grace
into her forties
but alive and kicking
dementia feigned
a trail of naked
two-headed gods
worshiped too well
with lip service
left a slumber
while she read
Jabberwock
at their feet
while she gyred
and gimbled
in their wabe.