Author: Misha Collins


Old Bones 
This morning 
The smell of bacon 
Brought me downstairs 
But before I reached 
The open kitchen door 
A voice stopped me 
My mother telling 
Her old, arthritic dog, 
“I know sweetness 
You’ve been carrying those bones 
For a long time.” 
I leaned unseen 
On the mildewed 
Window sill 
Watching her 
Sip coffee 
Fry Bacon 
Her old dog 
Pressing at her knee.. 

“Baby Pants”

This morning I drive across town for a friend 
To Justin’s house on a Saturday at 9. 
His wife yells from under wet hair 
Belt unbuckled 
He’s down in the office 
And I sit—collapse on the new couch 
Custom made, brown and squarer than a couch should be. 
Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection. 
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now. 
Can’t put them on, but knows 
They go 
On his baby legs. 
And there I am 
With my friend’s family 
On a weekend morning. 
The mother holds an envelope 
In her teeth 
Hoists and struggles 
To pant her boy. 
I’m slouching and hot in my vest 
My blue, down vest. 
Thinking today was colder than it is. 
Forgetting that fall in California 
Is like summer back home. 
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys 
The smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk 
What have I missed?.