Poetry

These lone fires will never die out/
the roses still stagger in the embers;

Lost in the midnight stillness, my mother/ 
rises to dress and begin another/ 
chilly day. She crosses the moonlit floor. 

“This restaurant has a fine ambulance.”/
What my friend, of course, must have/
meant was that this restoration/
had a fine ambience,

I order another drink and/
decide not to kill them, even/
in my imagination.

October, a woman and a boy, a tumor/
overtaking his brain, draw pictures/
in the waiting room.

Before my pupils gape oh in unison,/
I find a seat with the semi-sighted