Wrestling My Father

The scent of gasoline and lanoline lingers
mingled with sweat and Old Spice, menthol
Winston’s from back before you gave them up

for good persist in half-life beneath Vitalis
sheen and Listerine, waves of Bengay radiating
off red hot coals of trapezius muscles seized

inside a white V neck tee from Monkey Wards,
thin cotton canvas worked with small fevered hands,
greedy, slathering claim, leaving myself open to

reversal and the pin, sting of ancient rug burn
still gracing my cheek, palms pressed to face inhaling
what little I can of you by lung full.

The Last Bed We Buy

Should I be grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above this stark
cake of soap, gazing down, laboring to put
names to faces, the couple so familiar,
side by side, palms down, still as miller

moths displayed on pins, our salesman,
Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after
motel king, reading my mind, musing on
this pair of worn porcelain dolls
painted in chipped shades of hesitation?  

Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top?  

Hypoallergenic pipes Ted or Bill, the last thing
I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen,
one not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
a satiny raft to ferry us the final stretch of river.

Waving like Queens we float on by the last new
roof over which we will preside, a nod of recognition
for the last new water heater, too.  Applaud politely  
our farewell drive through the Tunnel of Trees

one biting October afternoon in the not so distant future.
Cluck our tongues for the poor dog snoring soft
imprecations to hips gone tender some coming
rainy April night.  Blow twin Bronx cheers,

fat, wet, and sloppy, as we bid adieu to one last
shameless act of televised hubris.  Grace lies
ahead around the next oxbow, two dormice
cupped in a leaf, rills and eddies conveying us
to the sea on softly rolling shoulders.

The Last Bed

I should be grateful not to find myself disembodied,
hovering high above this stark cake of soap,
gazing down laboring to put names to faces,

the couple so familiar, side by side, palms down,
still as miller moths displayed on pins, our salesman,
Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after
motel king, reading my mind, musing
on this pair of worn porcelain dolls
painted in chipped shades of hesitation.  

Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top?  
Hypoallergenic, says Ted or Bill, the last thing
I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen
that is not too soft and not too hard, but just right
for ferrying us down this final stretch of river

past the last roof we’ll put on the house,
one last drive through the Tunnel of Trees,
the dog snoring soft imprecations to tender hips
on his old bed some rainy April night.

Two dormice cupped in a leaf
rills and eddies conveying us to the sea
on softly rolling shoulders.

Night Coming On

Sun going down spindled our shadows
to Giacometti bronze,  
three old friends on a standing
six mile walk, streetlights sputtering
indignation at a dismal election
more final referendum
on the Enlightenment itself,
casting us in unflattering light,
angry white men, for all you knew,
wreathed in the sour mist
of seething resentment,
bas relief of your shadowed face
a dry wadi of worry
framed with care within
the folds of your hijab.  
Desperation, oncoming night,
courage in the face of our disgraceful
descent into darkness,
God only knows what drove you
to ignore the little voice
in your head, steer to the curb to ask
directions to the community college.  
You can’t miss it, finning my hand
down Washington
in a puny act of supplication,
past holiday lights and shoppers,
past this bar where we sit
huddled over beer,
watching in disbelief,
news of night coming on.

Lost, Night Coming On

Sun going down on a six mile walk
honed our shadows to Giacometti bronze,  
three old friends, a bit of spring yet in their step,
streetlights sputtering indignation at a dismal election
more referendum on the Enlightenment itself,
casting us, perhaps, in unflattering light,
a triptych of angry white men wreathed
in the sour mist of resentment for all you knew,
bas relief of your shadowed face
a dry wadi of worry framed with care within
the folds of your headscarf.  Desperation,
oncoming night, courage in the face of our
disgraceful descent into darkness,
God only knows what drove you
to ignore the little voice in your head,
pull the car to the curb and ask
the way to the local community college
just a few blocks south on Washington, past
the first light, parking garage on your left,
you can’t miss it, finning my hand
down the street, past the bar
where soon we would huddle over beer,
watching in disbelief, news of night
coming on.

Draw The Lumberjack

His toque screamed French Canadian,
Jacques perhaps, prominent nose
broken in a brawl over a woman named Suzette or
a close brush with a widow maker,
****** Niagara soaking his flannel shirt,
dripping from the delta of lines describing
a beard reeking of cigarettes and bug dope
trimmed, if he trimmed at all,
with a sliver of band saw blade
stuck fast in a lump of tree gum,
whiskers, after all, affording
a degree of protection from clouds of black flies,
one twinkling eye nesting in a profile
crinkled by wood smoke and ribald
bunkhouse jokes, widening in mock surprise
at a sour note from a squeezebox broken
on a drunken Saturday night,
fanciful elements  I avoided drawing
in a slow, steady hand, embellishment
sure to queer my chances with the juror
poised to swing a bottle of champagne
against the stern of my boat
load of God-given talent, a launch
I await patiently after all these years
taking a break from the two man
cross cut saw, smoking
in the shade of all these doomed trees.

We Implore

How in Your name do you do it  
night and day, day and night,
weather the whiteout of words,

mad scribble of mother tongue,
those heart rending howls
packing power enough to jolt

stolen celestial cat naps
hunt You down holed up
under alias disguised

at the wispy tip of some
far flung finger of cloud or,
as I like to picture it, waiting

at a light draped low in a pearlescent
Lincoln MKZ with tinted windows,
following the progress of some pilgrim

brandishing a hand lettered sign
like the relic of a martyr, silently
praying for the green.