snapshot

snapshot

snow drifts against

the house

the foundation blocks

buckling under

into a basement

the missing teeth

of the elderly

are always laid where you

least

expect

you reach into the

magazine rack for the

remote

and touch something

cold, now dry

the perfectly molded gums

hard, browning

and think of the words

passing over those teeth

last Christmas

Oh, it's so good

to have you…

you think

of her deliberate chewing and the

three-bean-salad

she always called

her favorite

and you've found

what you keep trying

to mislay

the things that keep

turning up keep getting

in the way:

a song

a phrase a picture