Ripple Effect (first draft)

Sky chief looms Saturn

with moist halo lips

between his coarse palms;

the green leaves

quickly crisp and fall

and ripple the water

just like cold bread crumbs

thrown in this pond.

The kitchen is yellowed

from the cigarette’s smoke

but I still can taste

ice cream Thursdays with

strawberry soda

in smiley face cups.

I can hear his voice

It is sour to

The ears.

There is no grave or

monument on which

to water with tears.

The town home only

is left to my thought.

September 2007

In memory of Art Cochran Sr.