Today's poem is by John Gallaher

Dress Rehearsals
       

I keep dreaming I've killed someone and I can't remember
where I put the body. And we're having guests over
this weekend. What to do?
We'd love to sell the house. Who wouldn't love
to get rid of this house? It's so hard to get rid of things.
Like really get rid of them, all these anthologies
guest edited by Halloween. If you stand just right
you can see both shorelines. The garden.
Have I checked the garden? Math problem.
If my father died last spring, the house would be worth $200,000.
Now it's worth 125. Do you want to sell?
You could fit a swimming pool here. But maybe not so much digging.
Maybe it's worth 150. Just wait a bit,
the paint changes color as it dries.
Everyone who ever lived is jumping into the Grand Canyon,
which is still not filled. There's a frantic applesauce about it, though.
Like maybe why is everyone jumping into it.
I'm writing my father's obituary. It's a new genre for me.
As identity is a genre. I wonder if they have a Best American
Obituaries yearly anthology. Maybe this will get into it. It goes
like this: that's all there is. You build some roads. They're
all right. Most people say it as one word, alright.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do.
The neighbor's dogs are sniffing around the garage.
Actually, those are my dogs. Maybe I should call someone and say
it feels like prayer but not like praying.
He wants a pine box. Of course he wants a pine box. Probably
one made by Boy Scouts, singing, "My Country 'Tis of Thee."
The way the hospital scene is always the hospital scene.
This room looks contagious.
No one saw me just do this amazing parking job.
As long as I don't get out of the car everything's fine.

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Copyright © 2024 John Gallaher All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission