All along the Saw Mill River Parkway,
a season turns inward to meet its operation,
pumpkins spawn lattes, muffins,
globes of yellow mums line driveways,
a Revolutionary War hamlet stolen in the 1600’s
for a cache of blankets and wampum,
once filled with baggage and artillery wagons,
cars commute to and from New York City,
a black mustache drawn at the Hudson’s mouth
to catch in-bound traffic from free-falling.
Maples wrap branches around my rib cage,
a trap of orange and gold leaves filter translucent light,
and like an unsuspecting moth, I’m sucked in,
walk along Croton Reservoir without a map,
later drive my sister to her doctor’s appointment,
a drunken doll, one leg stutters on the kitchen floor,
the other from a knee replacement;
she’s the oldest and now titanium,
goes to physical therapy
where aluminum walkers spell doors open.
Today our middle sister has placed her husband in a nursing home
fighting the battle of guilt and loyalty, for years
in paralysis until she flattened her ant hill with sparrows.
This morning Patsy did my hair, her twenty year-old son
somewhere in the Middle East, which is to say I’m drifting down,
waiting in line to pay for a 300-capsule jar
of fish oil at the CVS register.
A man ahead of me can’t find his debit card.
People Mag says a certain movie star can’t wait to become a mom.
Milkweed pods along the roadway spew silk seeds.
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