Posted: Sun Feb 10th, 2008 12:31 am
1 st Post
father never took slow showers.
he never talked about his dreams
over coffee or between bites of corn
flakes or raison toast with peanut butter.
he was never religious, even after Lisa
died his hands never prayed more.
i often went to bed with his Minneapolis
voice on the radio, static like white
bags of salt, selling London Luggage
leather or used cars from places
like Thorp or Chippewa Falls, cities
that supplied the world with cozy children.
there is no way back from there, and even
when i wake up with you on the edge
of my bed, trying to tell me your whole
life story in short sentences, i write
a poem and remember you tucking
me into my small bed with deftness.
i considered you a genius
in the small city by the river in the trees.
Posted: Sun Feb 10th, 2008 04:51 pm
2 nd Post
timmy, I don't know how to critique poetry, but every now and then I read a poem where I get a chill at the end and it's as if the veil between appearance and reality has lifted for a moment. I got that feeling from this poem.
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