Deer-Dusk Of An Evening

I take Mother’s bones to town,
sell them to the lowest bidder,

pennies on the ounce. She calls
in the morning, inquiring about

her shoes, Grandmother’s Cadillac,
other forms of abuse.

I unpin my hair and launch
a pineapple grenade.

Washington State phones.
Apologies for the trains.

Grandmother, surely, won’t survive the ride.

A waterfall slices in behind the eye.

Cousin Jean’s red Mustang
rots beneath pines.

The ’51 Ford in the barn,
16,000 miles. No one ever

drives it. It’s never been used.