Larry’s House
Michelle Greenblatt
I sit outside smoking a cigarette. Mom
used to work with him. They say
he doesn’t have much time
to live.
Weeks, a month maybe. The cool menthol
smoke slips down my lungs. Larry is dying
of cancer.
I live with illusions, stay current with updates.
The wind bends the mango trees into
submission. In Larry’s house the air is never
on because he gets too cold. In Larry’s house
it never smells of death but his handshake
is getting weaker.
From behind the mango trees emerges
death, her black (faceless formless)
spreading widening raspy whisper says
tick tock tick tock
scratching open the air
and letting
it
all
fall
Through
