LAST POEM

THE FLOOD PLAIN, POEMS BY CHARLIE HOPKINS

IMG_2423for Tim Britton

Not content just to kill its prey
the mountain lion in the Pacific Northwest
will take a doe with a broken leg
drag her up by the left hind hoof into a fir tree
and leave her there a while to cool.

Last night I dreamed I was painting a house the color of an apricot.
Ladder raised twenty feet, set into soft ground.
A dream ladder made of wood left out in rain for 20 years.
The grain is split and slick with mold.

When I look up, my father is standing on the roof ridge
dressed in golfing clothes of the 1970’s
twenty years younger than I am now.

Lime green slacks held up with a woven belt.
Red nylon shirt, yellow spiked golf shoes and a hat the color of a lemon
to match the shoes.

Now he is back on the ground, looking very…

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