Decent people circle close enough for me to sense their breath, blood houses align cobbled paths, we emerge from hedges, snagged and cut raw, near here water rushes under bridges, kisses pilings where banks fail again and again. For days I return to this word: decent.
My grandchildren sigh relieved, for the pleaseandthank you grind is shelved for a time, they can snatch, grab, and graze at will. My decency becomes a relief effort, freedom from the old man’s saw, and while I hunger for an end to this aberration from the news,
they think, He’s wrapped too tight to object to Pop Tarts and corn dogs, he forgets to remind us to put empty cereal bowls in the sink. This is a new day, they shake their heads, giggle, Granddad’s gone on that walk with no direction home.
Kevin Miller lives in Tacoma, Washington. Pleasure Boat Studio published his third collection Home & Away: The Old Town Poems. Miller taught school for 40 years. He drives the Progeny Shuttle from Old Town, Tacoma.