Quicksand

As the ground gives way

turning to a kind of slushy quicksand,

I spin around the apartment

pulling things in close.

the shitty afghan that was an attempt

to knit my mother’s brain back together

a warm washrag rubbed

over my face

the bills you no longer pay.

I write the check, find a stamp,

the old timey wiring firing up and

somehow

that long ago learned and now outdated

task

comforts.

I keep seeking talismans

of a past, our past,

not for nostalgia’s sake, no

no magic there.

But to grab on to

something that is not

cracking, melting, crumbling

And it must be a thing

material

substantial

have some mass for

goddsakes

So I can hold it.