Autumnal

All along the Saw Mill River Parkway,

a season turns inward to meet its operation:

pumpkins spawn muffins, lattes,

globes of yellow mums line driveways,

a Revolutionary War hamlet stolen in the 1600's

for a cache of blankets and wampum,

once filled with baggage and artillery wagons,

cars commute to and from New York City,

a black mustache drawn at the Hudson's mouth

to catch in-bound traffic from free-falling.

Maples wrap branches around my rib cage,

a trap of orange and gold leaves filter translucent light,

and like an unsuspecting moth, I'm sucked in,

walk along the Croton Reservoir without a map,

later drive my sister to her doctor's appointment,

a drunken doll, one leg stutters on the kitchen floor,

the other from a knee replacement;

she's the oldest and now titanium,

goes to physical therapy at rehab

where aluminum walkers spell doors open.

Today our middle sister has placed her husband in a nursing home

fighting the battle of guilt and loyalty, for years

in paralysis until she flattened her ant hill with sparrows.

This morning Patsy did my hair, her twenty year-old son

somewhere in the Middle East, which is to say I'm drifting down,

waiting in line to pay for a 300-capsule jar

of fish oil at the CVS register.

A man ahead of me can't find his debit card.

People Mag says a certain movie star can't wait to become a mom.

Milkweed pods along the roadway spew silk seeds.