dealing cards unseen with Pom-Paw today,
casting rod spinning invisible throw,
mom hits the rounds of the floor yet again,
praying an answer from someone, somehow,
who, what, and, most of all, how next to fathom
where this slow-churning vessel is bound.
coffee and no sleep and heat seeping room,
hospitalist veering the long way around,
barges turn sure their bend in the river,
fog-bound meandering deep-running sound.
(owl triptych 1 – on the closing weeks of my step-father’s life)