peripheral like the name of a Hitchcock
classic. All of us, on a park bench,
like an old photo on the mantlepiece, we're
on a green bench in the Dalia Garden,
fog leaking down all sides of us. It's not working
out, there are too many of us, the bench is
cramped and the five of us keep falling off
like ducks on the edge of a bathtub.
Christmas morning, and Dad is awake, I
can hear him in the dining room, he's
waiting for the three of us.
There is a quiet gray to the sky and I
don't feel like getting up.
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