It’s Sunday, so I know, before long
I will have the nagging thought
that I should call my mother.
I’ve had this thought for years,
once acted upon it with regularity,
listened patiently for her weekly
list of things I needed to help her with,
since I never visited to do the work
with her standing over my shoulder.
I stopped the calls four years ago
because the dead make few demands,
and she didn’t bother to answer
except in the darkest hour
of my dreams.
Even as a young child
I imagined being a lawyer
was a noble profession, spent
Sunday evenings in front
of the old Motorola TV watching
Perry Mason stride up to the rail,
stare into the witness’ eyes, with
Paul Drake smiling in the first row.
I tried to make my younger brother play Paul
but he was surly even at five
and said it was Hamilton Berger or nothing.
He never did get that Burger
never won a case, and the moment
I came to the real that realization, I knew
when it came to play acting in my world
it was the perfect role for my brother.
I’ve retired from practicing law now,
never tried a criminal case anyway,
and years ago gave up seeking
anyone quite like Della Street.
It is Sunday
we sit in the living room
each with our lattes
she brushing the cat.
I sat on the sofa
with the Sunday Times.
We are listening
to radio Hele Norge,
unsure why, the
around our ears,
the speakers noticing
We’re not quite sure
how the weather is
in Lillehammer today,
but it’s sunny here.
Neither of us
pauses to wonder
what Archimedes would
make of it all.
They gather in the trees
their morning prayers
Only three arrive
our morning walk.
There is a reason
but the crow
tests our credulity.
A wintered branch
under the weight
of the blackness.
There is much
gnashing of wing.
A single bird
but we lack
but why are they
it is Friday?
Would that they
and would heed