Oakville Poem by Sam Howard

The wombats are roosted beside your bed,

we grope gently out of respect.

There’s some loose time lying on your nightstand,

quite nimbly I dip in my toe and your eyes become old.

We’ve been laid up here for years you spit out to me and

right now I can distinctly see the Indian ancestry

that runs thru your cheeks and into your nose so I say squaw

but it sounds random and strange and not serendipitous at all,

your eyes are still old but its your youth I crave.

Its just a delay you assure me,

a space-time lag

where certain impurities come to rest,

here in the abstract you’re at your best.