Absalom bubbles up from my memory
along with other bicycle mishaps at forgotten intersections.
Yesterday, the composer-in-residence next door
disappeared into a train of thought.
I think of the beers we enjoyed on her back porch
watching movies from the drive-in across the field
until the corn blocked our view.
I tried listening to the music of magic markers
but found it useless without my hearing aids
which someone had written into a short story.
Outside my window, flurries hang on my every word
like my friend from college who called
to remind me of the class we had taken on Faulkner.
I looked through my books for Faulkner
and found a photo of my parents wringing their hands.
They too are no longer here.
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| William Faulkner by Martin J. Dain |