assigment #22 - lily gardner: a letter to the tin man with his foot in my backyard

In the style of “Had the Vines Budded, Were the Pomegranates in Bloom,” S Brook Corfman.
My father was Methodist then he was ten and smoking a pipe on the back porch. Now he’s in quarantine and all I can do is notice the condensation dripping off a glass, even if it’s not iced tea. I keep trying to listen to the water on the walk. I keep saying There will be a world after the pandemic. It’s not quite true but I keep describing the same things differently, as my crumpling back when I sit for a test or the floaters that overtook my great aunt’s vision. The sensations of gluttony and scarcity won’t stay put in my eyebrows. I forget and then remember, exhausted as soon as I open my eyes. I had a friend whose father died, it was as if he never existed. She lives with her aunt who’s a pharmacist because her mother moonlighted to Ohio long ago. She hated boys. I don’t know if I’m more worried or impatient about what will come. Not even Robert Frost can help. When I ride on both paths, I have to swerve my bicycle, around the worms that come out after a spring rain and used condoms. I decided just to sell the bicycle. Carbon neutrality, for what it’s worth. But what’s the point of money, for an experience you can never have? Maybe if I go to the temple where they called out my name, with the Methodists, I’ll find some solace. I’ll kneel down and pray for the tin man with his foot in my backyard to convince me that Margaret and Adolfus were just dreamers with too many nightmares.