Mark Scandrette

My world is small–
An old house in a city made of mold
A woman I have known since childhood
who is as much a sister as my lover
Three children now almost the age we were
who only know me as their father.
Dirty streets and buildings sinking
into the ground–
minerals returning
to the place where they
once lay buried.

In my body I read the signs decay:
The gray of beard stubble
creases on my face
and even plumbing problems
like an old house with broken clay pipes
underneath a weakened foundation.

I’m getting older– am I any wiser?
Or will I die the old fool,
surrounded by the skeletons
of past achievements
propped up in a chair
watching the food channel
with someone wiping the drool
from my silent mouth and vacant mind?

How much of what I’ve done
will matter anymore?
Maybe all that really matters
is this one single moment.

The coastal fog seeps
into the river valley
and clings to the fir trees and winter grasses
making dry scorched earth a wonderland.
The frozen mist makes the ordinary spectacular.
Ditches, abandon cars and shanty houses
covered in crystal white frost
belong together
a fleeting post card picture of order and beauty
made visible by the Oregon solstice wet chill.