Apology to Jud
(and William Carlos Wiliams)
That grotty yam
that caromed around my trunk
for a week or two
after it fell out of the grocery bag--
I ate it.
If you wanted any
you should have spoken up.
I'm not a mind reader, you know.
I sometimes like to visit my mind
where it lives now,
talk with it in that dim room
lit with the detritus of generations.
We speak of many things both trivial and grand.
I ask it where my French has gone
It's a quiet chat--
we sense the time for urgency has passed.
We both have watched it go,
first deceptively slow, then
with the speed of a clock gone mad.
All these artifacts--names
of people no longer here, books
read and forgotten, every address,
the memory of where the crib once stood,
how the tiny cheek smelled of peaches--
Yet turning them over between us
makes a pleasant occupation,
whiling away the dwindling hours,
caressing the irrelevant.
Carol lives in Oregon's Rogue Valley, where she champions poetry for everyone. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks: She Walks, At Leaf's Edge, and Knife in Hand, plus a full-length book to be published by Oakleaf Press later this year.
Carol's poetry has appeared in The Cimarron Review, Generations of Poetry, flashquake, Quite Curious, Whistling Fire, Cram II, The Garden of the Crow anthology, The Hiss Quarterly, Lavender Review and Verseweavers--prize winning poems from the Oregon Poetry Association's contests. "Apology to Judd" and "Interlude" have previously appeared in Verseweavers and Women Writers: A Zine.
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