|Jul/Aug 2004 • Poetry|
Something happened to my father
when dust trails from the year 1553 met
the earth's atmosphere.
We picked a distant field and laid down our bodies,
arms to chest,
because our front porch light would blot it all out.
He timed his plastic sport watch for 12:25 and closed his eyes.
When it sounded, he snapped up so you could hear bones creaking.
I asked him if his watch had died.
He looked up and said no, it's the exact right time,
but we are too human for it to make a difference.