Sinking House Tanka
woman in a bright
yellow sweater standing in
the doorway of a
house that’s about to be knocked
down a cell phone at her ear
I told him the truth.
God bless you, he said, come back tomorrow.
The hands on this clock
move slower than time
It is all face--white-faced platter, banded teacup, nose
with three whiskers, no unwinding, no pendulum,
no spring. Just some little motor spinning in the dark.
Take away its hands and it’d be nothing but a hum.
I don’t care if it’s set right.
Or wrong. It’s right at least twice a day.
It tells the truth then. God bless it.
It comes back
I look at a carrot cake
And I see a woman.
Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner-city Philadelphia and now
works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals
including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent books are
TOXIC ENVIRONMENT (Boston Poet Press) and TWO BIRDS IN FLAME (Beech
River Books.) She received a 2008 PCA grant. firstname.lastname@example.org