Things Still Work

by Lindsey Boldt

the librarian mother says shhh…

no village will raise no child of mine

we keep things close here

smells of carpet under bed

breath of a close-talker under coffee’s influence

 

there are all kinds of strange men over there

broken fences and general mess

 

if it hadn’t’ve been for the father “coming down”

with cancer it works that way—slow-like

who knows if we’d ever’ve had our play dates

 

the linoleum-covered floor boards began to vibrate

from below you heard the slow grate

just under the cheerful back and forth

 

the professor carefully footnotes his daughter

 

the doctor says, “Honey, this man is 100 years old”

 

you built this thing from something hefty, something solid

and still it breaks down

 

things still work

 

the mother opens a Golden Book

traces the outline of a hedge with a moony nail

takes a deep breath and instructs to do so

 

 

afoot a pedestal, unseated or only resting

enforcer and assurer (assuager) of normalcy

 

under the influence of heavy cream and sugar

a coated tongue still tastes

often only the coating but sometimes an inkling 

(in Peaches and Bats 2)