After Dinner Moon

The search for photos long lost

is on: not in the basement,

not in garage, gone, gone

to the ages and

memory has come loose

as we grow older and come back

here every year to eat,

to play, to laugh, to visit,

to take care of grandmother

whose reactions are delayed more

and more, who can’t grip her fork

or reality, who can’t understand why

she can’t drive anymore even though

her license isn’t expired.  

The search continues

as memory fades, as snow

sits in the park around the duck pond,

and trains run through town,

right down the middle, splitting it

in half, as my uncle hangs three ties

around his neck, and holds a hangar

of twenty more: my grandpa’s ties

finally being passed on.  

Through the back window, after

spinach pie, artichoke salad, leftover turkey,

and manchego cheese, through

the backyard where we used to see deer

and now we don’t, through the trees,

vertical like prison bars,

underneath cloud cover grey and wispy,

I see the after dinner moon