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that long ago learned and now outdated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.



This put words to what I've been feeling. Thank you.
I write this as a record album plays. When it's finished, I will WALK across the room to turn it over and push the button.
We’ll be there soon. You can grab us.