Paradise Lost

I realize now, looking back,

the Rockwellian features

of being lifted into the back

of that old candy and tobacco truck

by hands tinged of Winston’s

and the rapturous wafting

of cigars and chew

blending with Three Musketeers

in silvery plastic perfection

and Reese’s peanut butter cups

in orange and brown.

Had I known then

as I opened the creaky door

of the brown Ford

and hopped into the

passenger seat,

quietly enjoying the breeze

through the open windows

on the drive down to the Old Place

to pick Catawba worms from

the catalpa tree,

I would have sat a bit closer.

Had I not taken for granted

the smells of a soapy sponge

on that old stained formica

as she made way for

a game of Solitaire

upon our return,

perhaps I might have

asked him to tell me

one more time about when

he dropped out his sophomore year

and enlisted with his older brother’s name.

Two weeks after an artery ruptured

toppling our kingdom in one fell swoop

I stealthily crept in through that screen door

and made sure no one was home before

taking the old portrait from her twenty’s

so Justin could Photoshop a poem I wrote

onto its backdrop for my mother’s birthday,

leaving everyone in tears except for him,

who wouldn’t take one look, and didn’t,

in all those years to pass, look once,

at those words reminding of paradise lost.

Painting is called "East Texas Barn," by Texan artist Bob Hallmark