Backyard On Hathaway

by Fred Dale

From his chair in the back room,

he sees the morning glories thread

through the fence, the oyster shells

mounded a step away.

There’s a clothesline, a black metal

framed hammock, a concrete bench

tilted to the ground, azaleas hosting

secrets. 

Various trees grow quietly: china ball,

oak and fig, an old cushion he knelt

on when caring for his tomatoes

and merletons, yearning. 

A picnic table rusts in the shade,

where we ate handfuls of barbecued

hot dogs wrapped in paper napkins.

The picture window in the back room,

surrounded by stoic, pine paneling,

has become a diorama to extend into

as shadows bug scratch up the wall.

His chair is gone. It’s a bed now, in

a place where his life will breathe out,

a teapot, signaling us he is ready.

A nun watches, letting her prayers fall

to him. She tells me, he’s calling

for his mother when he lifts his arm,

and she’s reaching out for him. 

We’re all there, nudging his younger

self, assuring him it’s okay.

The scene is fixed on all four corners.

FRED DALE, a native New Orleanian, is a husband to his wife, Valerie, and a father to his occasional jerk of a dog, Earl.  He is a Senior Instructor in the English Department at the University of North Florida. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Crack the Spine, Chiron Review, and others.