Tomorrow, My Father

Some places have no towns

these are the places you begin

you can let go of things

you can hold onto things

but this you know:

follow the blood lines.

I left at night

I was already north of Baltimore

I had a family of my own

I went with the lights of unknown cars

I never met my father

I was driving Jersey end-to-end

I never knew him

I passed the Cherry Hill tower

I was going to New York

I was going to meet him

I watched the exits coming and going

I pictured the houses hiding back there

I watched the cars getting off

I saw myself in the toll booth glass

I went with the trucks

I kept a radio tuned to the city

I followed the radio over the bridges

I landed on the ground

I came to his house

I went in

My father spoke with sun glassed eyes

              [no, you’re the bastard]

My father was water and the water falling

[no, you’re the bastard]

My father walked the world away

[no, you’re the bastard]

My father disappeared in all directions

 [no, you’re the bastard]

My father was always there

              [no, you’re the bastard] 

We sat on broken chairs. A smell

of old cats and burned cigarettes.

When daylight came he coughed.

His kitchen window barely open

his garage door firmly shut.

Some places have no towns

maybe they have rest stops

with gas stations and fast food

glowing warm under mild red lamps

in places named for Molly Pitcher,

Alexander Hamilton, Vince Lombardi

and you too Walt Whitman

appearing and disappearing

in the Doppler light of highway signs

welcoming all and providing

a provisional family for drivers at night.

The road makes everything possible

I am southbound now

driving through a light shower with

my windshield catching beads

each one bearing the immeasurable

weight of rain.