After the turkey, the tv goes off
and silence descends.

But for two clocks – who go on playing their tennis foursome.

“tac” “tock”, “toc” “tick”
“tac” “tock”, “toc” “tick”

I could listen to them all day, all night, and they
would not get tired.

But the echo in this house is.

So much space, unbroken by breath, unstirred by life.
My own, I seem not to count.

Undisturbed by hope, but moved by current alone –
two clocks soldier on.

“tac” “tock”, “toc” “tick”
“tac” “tock”, “toc” “tick”

Energized bunnies drum on until – at a time described
by science they die – finite tics.

Then
with

two snaps replaced.

Toys and clocks march again, tick apace.

I know there is no final score.
No one will lose and none will win.

So bored with my presence they won’t notice its absence –
they don’t need my audience.

I stand and sigh, bored with their game and
having none of my own, I head for the door,

that door clicking then clunking behind me.

And I find.

An orange and red and brown and red day
not waiting for me.

A Thanksgiving

bright with blue, cold with air –
loud with crackling golden brown
leaves under my feet.

Why do we run our lives by things we make,
bow our heads not for grace but a race
with our own inventions?

I close my eyes and breathe.

This oxygen outside is only slightly familiar
as the ancestor of that element filtered
and leaked inside the house left behind.

Even though the day has not waited for me,
it dawns on me that I have waited for it –
and it welcomes me as though
it had saved itself for me.

And I slip easily, fit readily
into its crispy chilly, wintry whisk’ry embrace.

All in my mind? Perhaps.

But a boy not made by science
collapses in leaves of trees on the face of an Earth
made neither by time nor mortal mind,
not made by man nor hands of chance.