Friday, June 18, 2010
At the post office, I saw someone from our old neighborhood. He’d aged considerably. His legs were skinnier, his hair grayer, his posture less secure. On his nightly walks, he used to smoke cigars. The smoke reminded me of my father. Now everything does, in one way or another. And according to my grandson, the old one in the mirror is not the neighbor anymore — without words, of course. I drag my comb across his head. He loves the way it feels, the teeth of fate in neat deep rows, the steady feet in distant fields, this man he trusts with all his soul.
“Times Two” added to Poems, Slightly Used.
In the Forum: digging beautiful French ditches.