my aunt says her husband
was reincarnated
as a frog, that he floats
over the scum
of the above-ground pool
when it rains.
she caught him, she says,
on the porch
last week, looking in,
at his chore coat
recliner
his ashtray
as if visiting a museum
of his former self.
she put a matchbook
w/ a pack
of his favorite brand
on the tackle box.
turned the television
to a local station.
in my living room
the cicadas fall asleep
forgetting themselves
like self-conscious drunks.
in the morning
i sweep up what they leave:
these skeletons
of metal deck chairs
powdered w/ filament
/n brick dust –
holding the shell
of their bodies to my ear,
hearing nothing.
listen:
there are some of us
(among the living)
no longer good at the living part
asking
what they leap into,
how they leapt out.
Image Credit: Drawing of a 12 Pack of Cigarettes, NARA / Wikimedia Commons.
