I am Atlas

I am my Grandfather's wristwatch,

still-framed - reaching my left hand

across into eye's reach

the weight of the world

unsteady across my shoulders.

I am a bloom in the shade

stretching my neck

towards sunlight waiting

for rain to fall on fresh petals.

The droplets strobing down,

I am the time it takes each splatter

to move under foundations

of the stone beneath

your cellar--I am the mortar

holding your insides together,

safe from the downpour.

I am the lock and I am the key

on an old wooden frame.

I am the light illuminating your shame;

I am the crooked chair you'll sit on

when it rains.

Untuned Melody

His words like ice,

swords that slice the center

of my gravity--devoid of meaning,

weighing down like a rain covered tarp.

"Win some, lose some," he says,

as I pick up the paint brush,

making delicate strokes along the baselines

of a room meant for his lover.

But I was there, I swear I was,

splitting wood in the sideyard,

mowing lawns, and going to golf outings.

He erased me every chance he got.

I was a mole in his basement - blind

and without a place to hide, open

for all interpretation and malice.

His smile was like a full moon

on a star filled night, blocking out

the serenity of everything surrounding it.

His chortle a constant beckoning

for me to bequeath some misplaced vanity

between only the two of us.

The way he chewed his gum, mouth slightly open,

mashing two sets of dentures together;

the way he softly hummed the lullabies

of his favorite country tunes

reminded me of younger days--

rides in an attached seat on vintage bicycles.

Removing training wheels and falling

asleep on his lap while mowing the lawn.

I was there; I swear I was.

But our song sang like an untuned melody,

chords that would never sing in rhyme.