3 poems by Mike Madill

Maybe Tomorrow

Don’t judge when you picture me 
with my feet up in a La-Z-Boy, nestled 
amongst fluffy cushions, my boy Elmo 
sprawled across my lap, furry snore. 

Instead, stop my latest sulk over
the time squandered since Covid moved in 
next door, dodgy back and lost work
now my own endless lockdown. 

Oh hell, where’s the chocolate? 
Maybe grab some pretzels or cheezies, 
while you’re up. Whatever it takes 
to forget the day: all that wasn’t 

accomplished, everything I could’ve done 
better. Somebody change the damn channel. 
Stuck here in limbo with a dash of 
self-loathing, and yet the recliner always 

lures me back to its outstretched arms, 
bless my soul. Too often, the outtakes 
from the next blu-ray off the pile outrank 
the feature, but even escape is overrated. 

 



Nearly Enough

I wish I had paid more attention 
when he dismantled yet another 
electric motor, rusty water pump. 

So smooth and methodical – 
never occurred to me to check 
if he even kept his eyes open.

Armatures and windings, 
pistons and seals, assuming he’d 
always be there for the next repair.

Big hands made light of 
mechanical mysteries, bifocals 
assessing more than he’d let on. 

Sharing nearly enough, answering
simply if I bravely asked, but never 
at length like his infamous dinner- 

time diatribes, letters to the editor 
triggered by the six o’clock news. 
Now, it’s after midnight and I’m 

in the dark, still spinning.





 
Social Distancing

Another careful Christmas, 
delighted shouts from 
Steve and I reined in 
by Mom and Dad, their forced 
grins, cradled coffee mugs. 

Dad dutifully takes his place 
behind the blinding lights 
of his Super-8 movie camera, 
compiles another year’s worth
of silent footage not to be seen 
again for thirty years.

The tradition complete, he returns 
to his modest, wooden chair,
scrutinizes our tree-side antics, 
braced in a hunch of cigarette 
smoke, safety in distance. 

Granny calls for a family photo 
of the four of us, Mom sinks
to the braided rug between 
Steve and I. He leans 
precariously 

on her left shoulder, I brush
my hand across her right, 
she hugs her own knees. 
Dad stays put, caught up in 
the shadow of the Christmas star.

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Mike Madill’s poetry has appeared in literary magazines across Canada as well as in the U.S. and Ireland, including The Antigonish Review, Event, The Fiddlehead, The Galway Review and The Hobo Camp Review. After his full-length manuscript was one of four finalists in the inaugural 2022 Don Gutteridge Poetry Award Contest, he was awarded publication of his debut poetry collection, The Better Part of Some Time, (Wet Ink Books, 2022).