dad promised mom 
they’d age 
as trees

a linden and an oak
surrounded by hybrid
tea roses

 /

once again, I am empty-
ing the vacuum of
clumps of dust
and my old hair

the timer on my phone 
says our two baked potatoes—

free in a box 
from the food bank— 

will be done in thirty-six minutes

/

I can’t stop talking about death 
even though I sit in an open office 

and winter’s atmospheric river
has already come and gone

and the engineers are trying to code

/

death looms 
in the darned holes of 
every sweater I own

/

near the baseball field,
a gang of crows
peck their way 
through garbage cans 

plumage 
shiny black 
like dad’s hair