Patchwork Memories

I remember
an ashtray shattering;
a rain shower of
porcelain
fragments
orange and green,
and stepping out
of its
panoramic view.

A restaurant horror,
the squeamish sequence
of my niece
crawling on the table,
belly full of air;
a white balloon.
Hording her food
she scuttles away
from the borax
blowing bug.
Her eyes blank,
an uncolored page.

A philanderer;
his whispered
four letter
crossword puzzle
clues of
LOVE
and
CARE
deleted with a chewed
bubblegum eraser
like the wife and
children he forgot.
Their feelings
squeezed dry;
a flat toothpaste
tube.

The field of crocuses
like pinwheels,
sunbursts of
orange, yellow swirls,
surrounds a
lone, gray stone
“Heaven is with
its newest angel”
reads the phrase
as the sun
and memories of
my mother
fade to
black.