Joe Cottonwood
Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints. He appreciates wagging tails and dog-eared pages. His website is joecottonwood.com
Chocolate Fudge
Gently we shake the quilt,
wake the boy who sleeps with
Chocolate Fudge, a bear.
Through dark streets we drive
silent bear and wide-eyed boy
without a sip of water or bite of food.
We act normal as if there is a normal
while in a bright room the nurse offers
boy and bear a choice of gowns,
blue or white. Choices—
we wish for more.
Nurse lets the boy push the big button
opening double metal doors to surgery.
In his too-large blue paper gown,
blue paper slippers, hair sticking up as usual,
he enters, pivots toward us—a quick
goodbye wave—a smile. Doors close
with a sound like a gulp.
We hold Chocolate Fudge
wrapped with blue crinkly gown
in a grip so fierce he might die.
Father/Son Night is a casino,
questionable choice for a high school.
(The goal is bonding.)
I play blackjack, amass a modest gain,
bet it all at closing time—and lose.
(It’s only chips.)
The boy meanwhile steps outside with
a fretful-looking girl named Cecilia.
Saves his chips.
Driving home the truck breaks down,
a clunky grinding noise, so we walk
toward a pay phone
(those old days).
A car drives by, somebody shouts
“Hey! Fuck you!” and is gone.
“Friend of Cecilia,” the boy explains. “Ex.”
I call Rose who is home with sleeping
children. Agonizing choice—
(we live in mountains, isolated)
(and looking back, we can’t believe
we made this choice)
but she leaves kids in their beds
(ages 9, 13)
with a note if they should wake and drives
to pick us up, an hour round trip.
Anxious, home, frosty breath of fir-tree air.
Inside warmth, bundles sleeping safely.
Oh children of this fuck-you planet—
Consider the risk.
Then love.
