Dick Thomas

CLOSED HEAD INJURY

(Victims of closed head injuries often feel
as if something is missing from their consciousness.)

Sometimes I think it's a horse
calls me on the phone
to ask about the reins
to say the bit is gone
calls me on the phone
while I sleep
my head fallen on the piano
piano humming
but all the C's gone
and in the morning
pedals gone too
music
signature
gait
notes
and words
calling on the phone
listen
no one there

* * *

GLOBASTOMA

You say you are so weary
you live nights
and most of your days
in a Lazy Boy,

where you watch a ghost ship glide
from corner to wall, wall to doorway,
desk to couch.
It's becoming familiar,

this craft,
cruising still waters,
standing trim on a dusky horizon,
mooring behind curtains and mirrors.

When your hands hang
loose on the chair arm,
and you begin to drift back
and forth into the deep,

you hear the weighing
of the anchor,
the crank and rattle.
You wait

for the snap of a sail,
a sudden cool breath to worry
the hair on your neck and face.

Listen for the rippling of water,
the hauling up
to the wind.

Dick Thomas has many chapbooks and three full-length poetry books, including his most recent, Extravagant Kiss. He has also published a short novel, Prism: The Journal of John Fish, in addition to scholarly books on photography and Denmark. He and his wife are both long-term cancer survivors.