Friday, January 10, 2014

TAKING THE BUS TO VISIT MY MOTHER

Gray evening rain on the bus windows
and everything seen through a gray filter:
gray people, gray red cars,
traffic lights three shades of gray
blinking in the spray.
A woman walks her dog
through a graveyard,
the dog props its leg against a marker,
pissing on the stone.
I arrive at the Care Home,
the night pierced by
streetlights, headlights, porch lights,
the night falls all over us.


copyright 2014 David Elsey


ALBERT'S THURSDAY NIGHT

Albert's father is an empty wine bottle on the warped floor.
His brother and sister sleep,
he listens to their even breathing
down the hallway,
he drinks his father's wine.
Out of work and needing a shave
Albert waits for a single day
that will make sense by nightfall,
that will listen to his voice
muttering some kind of prayer.
His father drinks at the bar until closing,
then drinks at his buddy's place till dawn.
His father will arrive
when the sun spreads up the sides of houses,
he will be a pair of thick legs
wobbling down the hall,
a lump falling into a twin bed.
And then Albert will sleep
in a darkness blacker
than the nights he runs from.


Copyright 2014 David Elsey