He’s sitting there, teeth clenched in his mouth,
mouthing the last line of a Madonna song—
a virgin, cherry popped—
and it spirals: Hostess pies,
lunchbox dreams,
Twinkies, deep-fried in a skillet,
sizzling next to a T-bone, rare.
A dog flashes by, socks on its paws,
German Shepherd, retired police,
once ate a cat—
had to put him down.
Dad comes next,
cancer stole his voice,
then they carved his tongue away,
replaced it with a “free flap” from his arm—
hairy words he shaved to speak
before he slipped away.
Mom drowned in tissues that day.
My high school friend,
architect turned pastor,
said goodbye for us—
building houses for the Lord now.
Dad’s last word—
Lord…—
a breath, then gone.
We wept,
but him?
Maybe he’s lighter now,
smiling somewhere.
Back here,
the kid with his teeth in his mouth—
it’s my turn.
Home Depot, 6 a.m.,
yellow vest gleaming,
loading timber into my truck.
Rain drums the roof,
a steady hymn,
and I’m still waiting,
thoughts unspooling
like wet rope.
BB Grey--musings 
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