Corners^*

by William Snyder Jr.

George R. Brown Convention Center, Houston

                  August, 2017

I've made the cot with the sheet I found

in a drawer, found in that last half minute

of dry and home and the running about

in my five small rooms for something

to hold, to remember. I opened a drawer,

and the flannel looked soft and warm—

the water outside looked so wide and cold

and rough—and the children were shivering

on the bathroom mat. I took the sheet in my

hands—gave it importance, as if its weight

and fold might save us. But I left things.

Jackie's kindergarten tablemat, her picture

pasted in the middle. Monica's Barbie

with its missing arm—our gray cat,

Robert's, mischief. I left my shoes.

The propeller boat whirred beneath

the window and we stood there watching.

The boatman, rocking sideways

in the current, called and waved and he was

just below and we climbed over the sill—

I worried the flaking paint might

splinter the girls, but they managed.

A woman reached for them, held them up

and over and into the boat and I

climbed in after. I held the sheet on our ride,

the children's faces pressed against its length—

this old white flannel with its purple leaves

and little red flowers. I tucked it in when

we got here—someone gave us a pad

for the cot—and Jackie and Monica share it,

my corners around them tight and tidy

and neat, and I can see the shapes

of them, side by side, all night long.

* After a photo by J. Raedle. Getty Images. (Deutsche Welle DW 8/28/17)