The Models
Let us never forget, he said, the good lessons we learned
from the Arts of the Hellenes. The Heavenly always next to
the everyday, next to man, to the animal to the thing —
a bracelet on the wrist of the naked goddess; a flower
fallen on the floor. Remember the beautiful presentations
on our clay urns — gods with birds and animals,
the lyre with them too, a hammer, an apple, the box, the pliers;
ah, and that poem where the god, after finishing his work,
takes his bellows from the fire, gathers his tools one by one
and places them in the silver chest, then, with a sponge, he wipes
his face, his hands, his nervous neck, his hairy chest. Thus,
clean, he goes out in the evening, as he does regularly, leaning
on the shoulders of golden ephebes — the works of his hands
which have strength and thought and voice — goes out to
the street, most majestic of all, the limping god, the worker

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Autumn
Rustle of leaves
in tree branches
definition of fall
soft landing
under my soles
a game secretly played
grayish, foggy
October morning
prompts smile
anticipation
of fiery April
Easter eggs
resurrection
philosophy of leaves
exegesis
harmony
purpose

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763750

excerpt

Fugitive
Shortly before the meeting, Esther Rhodes swallowed two sedatives.
– I’ve got a lot of appointments today, said Lois Daniels, the social
worker, sliding the papers across the kitchen table. Is he in his room?
According to the re-telling—Mom was present by request, a legal
witness to the proceedings—Mrs. Rhodes glared at the social worker
before attaching a signature to the consent form.
– Well, asked Dad. Was he?
My mother lost her train of thought spooning macaroni and wieners
onto four plates. As always, the largest share, to satiate the neediest
stomach, went to our father.
– Do I have to do everything? she snapped. Somebody get the
ketchup!
Once seated, she asked of no one: Now . . . who was what?
– The ’tard, my brother reminded her. Was he in his room?
Mom waved a butter knife in Burt’s face.
– Use that word one more time, buster . . .
Mrs. Rhodes was on Mom’s bowling team, the Renfrew Heights
All-Stars. Her son Fender was what people these days refer to as mentally
challenged. Back then he was called other things. The papers Mrs.
Rhodes signed that morning, the reason for the pills, turned temporary
guardianship of her only living offspring over to the Department of
Social Services. A spot had opened up in a group home. Mom
explained that if Mrs. Rhodes wanted Fender to partake in a program
that taught self-sufficiency, she had little choice.
– Don’t blame me, Lois Daniels had said. It’s the system.
The Rhodes had been our neighbours since the development—the
Renfrew Heights Housing Project for War Veterans…

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