Poetry by Ellen Skilton
There are raccoons in the floorboards,
and to-dos sprouting from my ears.
The dog wedges himself under the bed to
monitor anxiously the vermin’s every move.
The Philly basketball announcer gets
hyped up about a free-throw parade.
But her enthusiasm doesn’t shake
my seeping sadness. Like the melting
ice outside, it finds every crevice to fill.
Across town, a man dreams of a night
in Alaska, so cold there is no hospitality.
He tells his son — being an old husband
is kind of like being a baby. Now, I can’t
un-see the word hospital in how we care.
I may have lied about my vision to get ugly
glasses in 1972, but today I am forgiven.
This morning’s sunshine on the winter trees
makes now seem so distinct from then.
Like a ski-lift, I float high above old mistakes.
Ellen Skilton‘s creative writing has appeared in Cathexis Northwest Press, Literary Mama, Ekphrastic Review, and Dillydoun Review. In addition to being a poet, she is an educational anthropologist, an applied linguist, and a Fringe Fest performer. She is also an excellent napper, a chocolate snob, and a swimmer.
