Poem: June 24, 2019

Who Opened the Attic?

I like those crazy dreams
where there is almost too much
going on, like, maybe I'm
picking out tin wind-up toys
and candy because it's some
holiday, and I'm a kid, and
this is some part of a treasure
hunt in which at some point
I am driving a blue, 30s-era,
four-door sedan until I come
to the realization that this isn't
my car, it's Andrew's, and
anyway, my grandmother is
here when she wasn't before,
and I should spend time with
her in this circle of rocking
chairs until I see that Mom's
taken the last, bunny-shaped
sugar cookie, and Ron believes
that the cupcake he hid has
melted into the Bakelite radio,
but it's there on the shelf, so
why doesn't he see that it's
right there? There, where I'm
pointing. But it doesn't matter.
I walk away because out the
screen door and down the hill,
the sky is dark green, and
the ground is starting to flood,
and I think, "I can fix this."
And maybe I say that out loud.
I stop and wonder if I said that
out loud before I grab the
flashlight and the needle-nose
pliers, and that's the moment
when my body wakes up.