With Apologies to Robert Frost

Some say that where
there’s smoke there’s fire.
Some say that’s a lie.
From what I’ve dealt
with smelling smoke
I hold with all the liars.
I smell smoke all the time;
the Parkinson’s to blame.
I think I’ve had enough of smoke
to say that I desire fire,
conflagrations, flames,
to all the fitful sniffing snuffling
triggered by my brain.

baby
jesus
please
anyway
there
it goes

so much depends
on a fat man
in a skinny chimney

I’ve taken the mints
which were in the bowl
at the hostess stand.

Forgive me:
they were free
& three years old

so stale but
still so buttery.

fifty-degree Christmas:
an old rug unfurls
balsam pine needles

wrapping litters floor
father sighs, bends, groans
another trash bag fills

the empty cup
once removed
fills an absence