Poetry by Travis Stephens
Scattered around town,
bolted to the backs of benches
or bus shelters or appearing
without apology in free magazines
are well composed photos of
a couple, plus the sans serif
“It’s time to talk about Alzheimer’s.”
Yes, you say, while we can.
Before we forget to, I offer,
teaming for another joke.
Or talk about it again, you smile,
Because we don’t remember
we already did.
We are walking to the taco truck
on Pico, the one with the dollar tacos.
Not big, but tasty. Plus cans of Coke
or Sprite or milky horchata.
You order for both of us, the men
at ease with your dark-eyed loveliness
& tolerant of my gray hair.
I’ve always looked older, fooled even you.
But I see that the back of my arm
now looks crepey, the spots on my
hands not freckles or ink. We sometimes
run the numbers to calculate what your
parents were doing at our age, living
in Palm Springs or travelling abroad.
Grandparents many times over & both
retired early—something I am reminded
of in my daily commute. Grandpa Tug,
the little one says, & points at the stencil
on my shirt. His small body
lodged between us on the couch as we read.
The daily arrival of joy, eyes fresh with wonder.
If we stumble over names, what to call
that thing, you know…thing, don’t worry.
We will talk about it later,
vow to remember, try not to forget.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. Recent credits include: Gyroscope Review, 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Raven’s Perch, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Gravitas and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Read his earlier poems in The Bluebird Word from April 2022 and September 2022.
