Gesture
On our way to Sunday breakfast,
my father and I see a man
wearing a hooded sweatshirt and workpants
stained with white paint and mud.
He is sluggish at 7 a.m., a slight
scowl on his face, right hand
cradling a large book
as if it were his child.
As we pass by—our car only months old
and freshly washed, my father’s suit
starched, handkerchief creased—the man
lifts his eyes and head, softly jutting his chin.
Watching the exchange—my father’s return
nod and raised wrist, fingers bent almost
into a fist—I ask Do you know him, Daddy?
wondering, Have you been him before?
Spare No Expense
Because the cemetery was full
and only two bodies could be piled
atop one another, they cemented
my grandfather in a wall;
his brass marker mounted
on the brick beside his head, fastened
against his skull, nails hammered
between temple and right eye.
He has no room to turn, but curses
our simple nodding heads,
our fumbling tongues, wallets
tumbling into compromise. |