2 poems

By frank MOdica

Mortality

My oldest granddaughter’s left-over
s’more settles on a white paper plate
on the kitchen counter;
congealed chocolate and marshmallow
sandwiched between
cracked graham cracker squares.
Should I eat it now
or save it for later?

As I head out for the library
church bells announce
the waning autumn afternoon.
A scuffle of color
covers curbs and lawns;
rusty tans, reds,
oranges and yellows
shed by reluctant white oaks
and silver maples.

I pass through a bushy fringe
lining the parking lot,
drop off three overdue
children’s picture books
in the drive-through,
snag “Owl Moon” from the pickup shelf.

Outside, a slight breeze nudges
the blue skies toward tomorrow.
Back home, I brush stale crumbs
off the kitchen table.

this september 

Just days before our sixth anniversary,
I slip out of the cool summer sheets,
awakened by a scurry of squirrels
chattering away in a storm-damaged oak tree.

I step quietly, try not to disturb
Pam, my love, peaceful this morning.
Shards of light ripple through
an open triangle in the drapes,

silhouetting her face as I slide
back into our bed. Soon we are
floating together for another
honeymoon cruise on this trickle

of moonbeams, faster than
the speed of dreams.

Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher from Urbana, Illinois. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Brussels Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Adelaide Literary Magazine.