Indiana Winter Sundays on Greenbush Street

(09/08 – 1950’s memory poems)

Under a doily covered table

with a lamp,

two African violets,

and a half-filled ashtray;

among claw-footed legs

lay an out-of-round coconut,

its outer husk intact,

a large yellow conch shell

with pink inner lips,

Florida souvenirs from my aunt.

Grandad said hold it to your ear,

listen to the ocean

and I did.

I’d tip it back and forth,

try to tease out the singing voice

that missed the beach so much

it sang about the ocean

to anyone who’d listen.

I pressed my ear to the opening and

imagined warm, distant places,

while we waited for Mickey, Tinker and Walt

to come drown out grandma’s gossip

that droned on and on and on

about absent family members

unable to defend themselves.

9-8-24