By Sam Culotta
These things you can't describe
the quiet click of the needle on
an old phonograph record
the sound of a red winged blackbird
on a wire over a country road
the hiss of ocean foam rubbing itself
against the broken shells of shore at night
the crackle of wood being consumed
by flame and the intimate pop of a cork
Some things you can never forget
Your mother walking out the door
of the classroom on your first day of school
the smell of paint in your uncle's pickup
driving to the Finger Lakes to fish
your father’s toneless whistle as he
re-assembled a carburetor on his bench
the drunk you found asleep in the back seat
of the family car one snowy Christmas Eve
"a thousand pardons!" he cried "a thousand pardons!"
and stumbled out into the snowy starry night
the indescribable quiet of snow-caked
streets as we drove away home
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Sam Culotta is retired and living in Southern California. He is the author of two books of personal essays: Sleeping With Lumbago, and Clueless In Paradise, as well as James Dean Is Dead: New And Collected Poems. His prose and poems have appeared in various publications including Avalon Review, Rockvale Review, Cathexis Northwest, As It Ought To Be, Backchannels, and Courtship of Winds.