Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.
Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.
Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.
Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.
The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.
You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.
I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.
Your father, a poet,
Is published.
You are certain
We haven't heard of him.
Your soft clear face,
Brushed with hair,
Crinkles in concentration,
Searches for trees.
Rumpled in boy's sheets,
Belly pressed towards sleep,
A hair wave trundles down
Neck and shoulders.
Flannel pajamas form
You and winter scenes
Of snowmen and skaters
Tickle your pale flanks.
The machine kicks in after four
Rings, pressing pleas of
Happiness onto erasable tape.
You screen every call.
You are pressured by the phone.
The vinyl bench in the Blue Metroline
Train presses your intense desire
For freedom into my back.
I sit and write a letter,
From my suburban room, forming words
that tell why I could miss
The last Metro home.
You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.
Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.
At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still
Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.
©1994 Chris Abraham
]]>You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.
Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.
At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still
Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.