After Dad Left Us

After Dad Left Us

"Welcome" says the green fern by the front
steps; green branches spread open, ready to
catch you while you hop board.
Mother spent a great deal on her plants,
but eventually every fern would change.
The air is always dancing around
and gathers with it the heavy scent
of the motor-oiled sea.
Mother's boyfriend always repaints the white hull
as every year the paint rusts away.
Three pillows are perched upon
the sable captain's chair; their rich
mahogany fabric delicious to the gaze.
She always spent so much time replacing
those pillows, but the bothering waves always won.
A faded curtain wavers lightly in back
from the gentle lullaby rocking - dividing
the living from the barely used.
The boyfriend would brush the curtain away,
fetching things for her from the storage.
Perfect crystal glasses sit poised inside
a faded, white, sea-rubbed cupboard.
Mother would fill them with rich
red wine, laughing with her lavish aliens.
A massive dirty engine lurks below
where it has roared and growled.
The boyfriend spent hours
trying to fix it so they could travel farther.
So they could flee the motor-oiled sea.
An old wooden frame sits on top
of a marbled counter; the photo a changeling.
She would hold it and sigh,
her emerald eyes turning to liquid gems,
while my father smiles back at her.

In an azure sky, seagulls cry from above.
She's always gazed upon them
and admired their white wings.