Eye of the Storm on Woodhollow Lane

Have you walked through drizzle in a foreign town

In the eye of the storm?

They watch you through their windows,

Between spritzes of Windex,

But your eye

Is in the mist.

If the storm’s got an eye

                       Does she wear a monocle?

Then she can see

The mahogany house where Jaime and Michael and I

Used to make

Fine jewelry out of the stems of leaves.

In case her lids are closed

In some preterhuman repose

I’ll write what I see:

On Woodhollow Lane a man walks half a mile

To check up on a particular bush of hydrangea 

Belonging to the neighbors.

(That’s the truest kind of love I’ve seen

In all my 17 years)

…

There go the lights!

He can’t squint at the paper’s fine print

And she can’t watch Judge Judy

So Grandma and Grandpa and I

Sit around the table

Chatting by the light of a yahrzeit candle.

What do we talk about? 

The 26 people who can remember

Each day of their lives

(How Grandmother likes the phrase Idiot Savant)

We talk about a dog that only 

Eats on command

And we talk about Grandmother’s 

Cheerleading days

(My Grandfather still writes her love letters

And calls her ‘babe’)

No wonder that candle still flickers by morning.

I’d draw you a map of Woodhollow Lane

But you’d never recognize it

Now that the storm’s cleared.