Jul/Aug 2012 Poetry


by Pat Smith


I see Jupiter just before dawn
So fat I think it's a helicopter hovering
Over bad traffic on the expressway
Until I look through my glasses
Good news for the morning commute
No tie ups on the Gowanus
A big planet in plain view
While we swing into sunlight

I push my father, not so old but frail
In a rolling recliner chair
On small wheels up a steep street
Bumping over sidewalk seams
As dusk falls and windows light

He gives me a tiny box, a kit
To make to make a matchbook house,
Like Tinker Toy sticks the size of splinters
He warns me not to spill them

I leave him in his living room
On a low pallet beside a TV
He says we'll meet at the flea market

I carry two light cases of his odds and ends
Out into the night and unfamiliar blocks
Lost as it begins to rain but stops

I take a wrong turn up cemetery steps
And cannot get back down
For the crowds of people climbing


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