Sweatshirts

I was wearing my father’s sweatshirt

the one his father wore

I pulled it on

I pulled it off

You were sitting with me on some stoop

and I was reciting some speech

about how you should have shown up sooner

 

You didn't argue

You apologized

and agreed to never be late again

 

Later when I was alone

I pulled out my yellow sweatshirt

the one with the stains and the stencils

of the boy with his hands in his pockets

and the two hearts hanging overhead

 

I have been wearing it ever since

my thumbs tucked into the tears of its cuffs

 

 

 

Decorum

she leaned the final frame against the wall
stepped back to admire what they had done

this here
that there

her hung pictures were hiding wounds
some with several small points of entry

long nails
short screws

the rug protected swept things
held in place by bare feet and legs

postured
pristine

the coffee table built of milk crates and glue
rested in between things she could not live without

blue chairs
pillows

her mirrors caught the light at different angles
so she lit her lamps and saw herself in every way

in them
in him

she wondered where the leaning thing would go
lifted it with two hands and carried it to the bedroom

America was Bright

America was bright
and abroad was beautiful
    older than we could ever be

Democracy was true
    men fought for freedoms
that their fathers only dreamed of

Neighbors were family
who gathered and celebrated
the marriage of sons and daughters

Death was a tradition
         no one understood
         so we all banded together