Winter and Bourbon

coffee turns to tea when
winter hits the kitchen window
turns to bourbon softly

when rain gets hardy full-up
with ragged breathing, sad
heroes line the salty walks

he knows the road went somewhere
yesterday, but never went the route
he could remember choosing

it slips away, he falls behind
crinkly photos, unframed cryptic
stares that promised goodwill trophies

unremarkable sadness, second-hand
he leaves at his table, piled on
plates of take-out taken in

smudged fingered things are scattered
between his footsteps, between his
broken sweater and veiny feet

but he had his notes, written with
bold block letters, written with
exactitude, leaving bared no doubt

and so the day began, while mushrooms
grew beneath the roses, caterpillars ate
the aphids, ate the cautionary tales

he'd made to tell his children, to
shape the danger that kept him
sitting by the laundry door