for my father

 

I watch you sit­ting there,
eyes closed, not sleeping.
You have returned to those maple hills
where the Susque­han­na Riv­er flows.

You see the wood­en steps you cleared of snow,
the gap beneath for win­ter wood,
the sleepy porch, your moth­er rock­ing babies,
hear the old jalopy weav­ing home
from the speak-easy.

Smil­ing, you remem­ber a young kid kick
a tin can down the dusty track to town,
jump aboard the spin­ning carousel
carved white hors­es, gem­stone eyes.

And you remem­ber how you ran
the night your moth­er died,
first for the doc­tor then the priest,
tied a tourni­quet around your grief,
a swollen riv­er ris­ing, kept on running.

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