Hoses

I love the hoses of summer
hanging in their green coils
from the sides of houses,
or slithering through lawns
on their way to the cool
meditations of sprinklers.

​

I think of my father, armed
with his scotch and garden hose
probing the dusk
with water, the world
in flames around him,
booze running the show.
Still, he liked to walk out
after dinner and water the yard,
fiddling with the nozzle,
misting this, showering that.

​

Sometimes, in the hot twilight,
my sisters and I would run
in our swimsuits through the grass
while he followed us
with a cold beam of water.

​

And once, when my mother
came out to watch, he turned
the hose on her, the two of them
laughing in a way we’d never heard,
a laughter that must have brought them
back to the beginning.

​

—from Imperial, available on Amazon

“I feel quite sad to say that the poem-a-day series has come to an end today, as has National Poetry Month. What a delight it’s been to read your comments. Thank you!