Unfinished Days

In These Unfinished Days

I often come home weary after a

twenty five minute drive with no sound

Or too much if I crank the radio and scream with the words that crackle and cry from the dashboard,

and my cheap speakers that

throb and shudder when I press the button to raise the window in my old and tired Volvo 240

No words left after a day of endless chatter

with few solutions to problems that mount and level

spill over into my sleep and dreams where I square off 

with demons and angels, reminding me of

conversations with my mother that I never finished,
even though I can't remember what they were about
 I can always feel the texture of her skin, taut and smooth,

and the fabrics that covered her in her final days

That ridiculous giraffe patterned fleece, the only thing we could find that would wrap around her

Blue knit cap made by the Ladies of Mercy

between gossip and gum cracking 

Emergency room visits that lent urgency

to every single day

God help us

there is still so much to do

That has little to do with 

suffering and righteous

just keeping an eye on a horizon that keeps changing

and light

Gorgeous light

That shows us how many shades of green there are.