Under The Willow Tree Now; Short Stories Are Safer by Richard LeDue

Under the Willow Tree Now

The shade is a shade of loneliness,

while the fresh air is ruined

by the stink of a cancer diagnosis,

falling out of a doctor's mouth,

shattering on the floor,

although your father caught it all,

and the evenings now,

under the willow tree, seem darker,

like the one dress shirt he owned,

worn one last time

to dress up memories of training wheels,

of checking a first car's engine oil,

of grease between fingers

that seemed to fix everything

they touched, until between broken breaths,

he told you to go visit your aunt

for a few days,

so he could not destroy you

by dying at arm's length.

Short Stories Are Safer

Paper-thin immortality killing

well thought out poems,

written with dollar store pens,

who probably dream

of being stolen from a bank.

Then there's the poet:

hands in pockets, as if preparing

a magic trick, only to turn

a paper-cut into a metaphor

for how a poem can fight back.