Gray

In the evening, in those first moments
when the heat breaks and dusk
begins its smooth drain into the night,

a coyote might leave, perhaps
an opossum or a reptile might leave
that edge of ponderosa rising

above the dense-pack manzanita
to venture out upon the loose-chip parking lot
of the computer firm where your mother works.

And surely that image will be seen
by the firm's methodic security device.
It will cause a brief, yet satisfying

sensation for the guard watching the monitor.
By this time your mother will be enjoying
a glass of wine with dinner—maybe

I will look at her and not listen
to the complaint she is grieving,
instead, sadly wish she wasn't so

good-looking when she smoked cigarettes.
You will be in bed with your many bears
and the moon will be breaking in your window.

It will be years before you come to this place
I now find, where the trick is just
to realize what your mother is tonight

as she reclines into the gray, pillowed sofa,
and to know that this is all you will need,
ever, to achieve.

Copyright © 2003 R. D. King All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission