GRIEF Poem: I can’t smell Easter anymore, by Fletch Fletcher

I don’t know how much to mix
worn hardwood floors and chipping linoleum
every grease you imagine mingling
bacon hitting the griddle
engine in the hands
two generations of what children find
wood paneled corners
pitted with age and attention left elsewhere
bones of the tired couches
and the tired bones upon them
mixing dander and decades
a litany of long dead dogs
that loved the motor-oiled hand that fed it
vinegar and hard boiled eggs and
blue
its smell as much as its feel
I swear it had a scent in the yard
under the shrub that took swatches of skin
repayment for the years of holding nothing
in return for these
blossoming trees
oak over the deck and pine
Douglas Fir from the one Christmas
in the 70s when he was just a father
a few years from grand
when it refused to die

Author: poetryfest

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