12 Faded Pictures

 

James Edward O'Brien

 

 

beaten screen door

on a summer porch.

I flick ashes on the

sand-worn carpet,

grind them out

with the heel

of my bare foot

without a care;

it's just a rental.

 

it is too damn hot for mo(u)rning.

I can hear the big sea

and its big ocean sounds

two blocks down.

 

I sit and smoke away a laundry list

of 12 faded pictures,

nostalgia shotguns

playing out of tune,

the songs of young men

played with wiser men's fingers.

 

I hum a tune of all the fathers

drifting past the horizon on inflatable rafts

all the fathers

in rooms upstairs

with acoustic guitars

after I've gone to bed.