David Southward

Postcards from Mom's Condo
 

On either side of the drive, guardian palms
stand in islands of bleached stone.
Their fronds fan terra cotta pots
that tilt toward the morning sun,
spilling fictional oils
of amber chalk—
their mouths ajar,
a lizard in one.

                    *

What wakes me is not the incessant clack
of vertical blinds in the guest room,
but the periodic who, who of doves
filtering in to ease the brain
from hebetude.
I turn in the sheets,
remembering this
is White Haven Lane.

                    *

Brown-breasted ladies meet at the pool, to hang
on foam noodles and weigh in
on convalescent homes, each other's migraines,
mutual funds that eat their dividends.
The fittest of them does her laps
on tiptoe—fifty-some,
to and fro
in the shallow end.

                    *

Behold Michael, the Chico's designer
who took me for sushi at a place called Blu,
walking his Chihuahua, Lulu,
past Mom's lanai. I wave, but instead
he greets the Frauen who bow
to Lulu—spotting his work
in their rayon skirts,
Hibiscus Red.

                    *

Sun's on my back. I run beside the marsh
where palmettos soak, watch the bike path
spool on my shadow self
without accretion. Cars race by, tire peelings
roll to the shoulder.
One foot prints
an anthill.
What are my feelings?

                    *

Mom sweeps beach salts from the outer stairs
as I write postcards in my condo Zen.
So evenly does the ceiling fan
wag on its axle, so clear is the blot
my beverage makes on a napkin,
that I come to wonder
whether I am here
or not.