My father was A blossom, And I was his fragile Epiphyte on his Days off. The purple Dogs of years Gone by Watch him smile At the horizon. His feretory Catches the Rain from the Smoldering sky. These fields are
This one appeared to me in a dream, was forgotten, only to reveal itself on the shower wall this morning. It must have been the water. • That one was on the full moon
My father had our yard cemented over. He couldn’t tell a flower from a weed. The neighbors let their backyards run to clover and some grew dappled gardens from a seed,
but he preferred cement to rampant green. Lushness reeked of anarchy’s profusion. Better to tamp the wildness down, unseen, than tolerate its careless brash intrusion.
This was gruesome—fighting over a ham sandwich with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped on my arm and half hung on to the food and half hung on to my shirt and coat. I tore it apart and let him have his portion, I think I lifted him down, sandwich and all, on the sidewalk and sat with my own sandwich beside him, maybe I petted his bony head and felt him shiver. I have
Careful observers may foretell the hour (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower: While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o’er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you’ll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine; You’ll spend in coach hire more than save in wine. A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old achès throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen; He damns the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, That swilled more liquor than it could contain,
It was nearly daylight when she gave birth to the child, lying on a quilt he had doubled up for her. He put the child on his left arm and took it out of the room, and she could hear the splashing water. When he came back
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home, A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind, An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind. It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be, How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.
Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it; Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men; And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:
He was eight when they gave him the felt overcoat— his birthday.
He knew it was special. He was still reading Walter Scott not Gogol. The coat was light grey and he was a knight in armor. It was adamant. Iced snowballs and other missiles no longer hurt. Or barely.
He grew as do all boys who are not dwarves or midgets. The coat grew, too. It kept pain out, and in.
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