That’s where it was,
he said as he pointed
through the spidered windshield
to where he’d plunged
down into the bushes below.
Pointing stiffly, tracing
through the drift of air
and his nervous cough,
swooping me out of the corner
of his eye, regret
crackling through in his voice.
The guardrail bent inwards,
showing that some attempt
at stopping was made
and I can still smell
the cigarette that was put out in that forgotten vehicle
over seven years ago.
Bricks aside in the driveway,
the fireplace held on for display
a heap of ash and smoke still fresh.
Firemen cast their pumped tubes
skyward, roots exposed,
You know from experience
that with no place to call home
there are greater losses to mourn,
that only certain trusted ones are allowed
to ever visit.
The trees lay uprooted,
grotesque coilings observed.
Your fist tightens,
then unfurls to grab my hand.
Joseph Veronneau has had poems appear or are forthcoming in
the following publications: Ken*Again, Chiron Review,
Chantarelle's Notebook, Cerebral Catalyst, Locust, Thieves
Jargon, Ragged Edge, and many others.
He also runs Scintillating Publications, a chapbook publishing