About the author
Sharon Scholl is from Atlantic Beach, Fl, a retired professor, mostly a musician, and, compulsively, a writer.
I am thinking now of cousins
passed upon the street unrecognized,
aunts I’ve not seen since I was two,
a father who breathes in scribbled
longhand, a nephew whose freckles
are only photographic, my brother’s
voice, a stranger’s on the phone,
a niece who writes of her divorce
to names she assumes would care,
a mother whose distant life reads
like a Martian chronicle, and I am wondering
if blood is thinner than it used to be.
See how lightly
he holds me
so I dribble
from one hand
to the other
like fat beads
He doesn’t try
to pick me up
but merely holds
one hand out
I always return
after the world
has beaten me
to keep me long.
Bonfire of the Vanities
It all boils down
to a urine-scented room
and the blue glow
of Lucy show reruns.
After the million dollar deals,
midnight parties on private yachts
there is the brown turd floating
in the toilet and the night nurse
purring, That’s nice, Mrs. Jones.
After the gossip
that tilted the election
the winner is the upper plate
soaking on the night stand.
After the salon coiffures shining
under chandeliers, there are the gray
remaining wisps left curled
upon the shower floor.
After the diamond pendants,
the anniversary baubles, there is
the glittering horde of pharmacopeia
spread around the sink.
After the trophy lover in the red Jaguar
there is the postcard from an estranged
daughter reading, sorry, too busy to visit.
So it comes down to this
after all, after all.
Strafed light stirs me to consciousness,
the forced notice of idling engines,
slam of metal doors.
A midnight call at the corner house,
the summons of a mortal crisis: oxygen,
stretcher, the dark bag of elixirs,
green robed medics loping silently
across the lawn, a bank of truck lights
threading signals through their legs.
I am the sleepy neighbor at her window,
the curious eyes behind the curtain,
my dread draped across the darkness.
The victim is unknown to me,
someone void of history or condition
for this sudden taking in the night.
Tomorrow I shall not bother
to question or visit, uncertain
of my welcome or my motive.
It is enough that I am not
the wracked body whose electric call
set the red lights turning on the truck.