it's late
and the first thing i hear is the clock's bell
ringing for each hour like a stab wound
smelling like salt and New York Harbor
as if i were a navyman like him
but silence washes over the room in a wave
and in its undertow the sands of my father are left behind
if my father was a poet he'd love all the white space
his room is a short poem, then--
an archipelago, each island
a monolith:
near the navy clock (born from saltwater and teenage dreams)
a dresser that could tell stories of wooden teeth and Blackbeard
then another, even heavier and dripping
with ancient handiwork--Marie Antoinette ate cake off it
a tv crowns it, almost aggressively
simple, burying history under Technicolor
a rug kneels in front of Marie & her crown
geometric paradise in brown and white
emptiness otherwise, just white walls (comfortably clinical)
and no extra space used (except for the bed--
large, a remnant of divorce)
and then, once again, i smell the sea
as the clock strikes something
or maybe something-thirty