Eve Rounds

father time plays tennis

always the one to chase after
a stray ball
so obviously
the carnage of a companion
long since passed
the wrinkles of his hands
fold over
nearly the entire grip
blue/brown/green/hazel penetrate his
own determination
from underneath
the rim of a baseball cap
(a team logo i can’t remember
because i’m unfamiliar with
sports in general)
in the way
of his once
powerful swing
an oversized 1970s olympic track jacket
droops and catches
the lake front gust like a kite
i wish i could tell if that was a smile on his face
his opponent
merely a memory
on the other side of the net

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards


what did falling in love feel like to you actual falling a new winter sweater a blood flutter did you question its science or were you


sometimes the wind the waves muffle and drown my memories sometimes the wind the waves magnify and amplify the sound of your voice and clearing

the theatre

this is  a silent film flickering  catching  starting over emptiness surrounding such a blinding contrast ahead of us shared stories  captured images disconnected nonsensical we