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.
No comments:
Post a Comment