Gumballs Drop

In Greenbush, Michigan a gumball
drops through the rusted trough.
My favorite flavor black
and colorless, unlike death.
Chewing, I feel human and animal.
I remember a spider and rinsing
him down the drain in annoyance,
or was it fascination?
I remember grass decomposing
and gently shuffled into the soil.
I remember how Grandmother appeared
in a dream, knocking on the picture window,
white, whispering to me one more time.
I told her “Go back.” She was old
and beautiful as if living
for a moment and then I fell
Into a different dream. I’m grateful
my father went to the grave site
of his mother’s family.
Brushing off the moss, he took
photographs of each stone. This is part
of his story to me. Each day
I tell myself a story about after
my death, or just before,
and so I’ve become thoughtful.
Sitting on the window ledge,
waiting for cool evening to come,
I grow less spacious. I grow
older and contract. Losing
the connection.

Indie Folk/Alternative Folk, uptempo, male voice