Brittle leaves, crisp and clinging
to the limbs against the cold October
wind. The way this jacket feels, its lining
soft as rabbit’s fur. The way the sun
slants through the neighbors’ fence
and night so cold you think the stars
are drops of ice. These keys, jangling
in my pocket, my sister’s sloppy piano tunes
and mother standing at her side,
her head in out-of-kilter rhythm.
My brother’s dog who ran round and round
as if he’d never die, the salt that’s spread
on winter snow, this house with all its
creaks and groans, the rain, the gales,
the twisters over Kansas plains,
the chug of trains, the roar of planes,
the clash and rattle of passing crowds,
that incessant hum beneath the earth I feel
between my pillow and my head before
I nod to sleep. I like that. I like that.
Angelo Giambra’s poetry has appeared in Southern Poetry Review, South Dakota Review, The Atlanta Journal and other journals. His poem “The Water Carriers” appears on Ted Kooser’s site, American Life In Poetry.