Friday, September 22, 2006

Shift Worker

I watch my father go. Later,
he returns

to leave again. Always at odd hours.
Perhaps between a bath and a story, or when morning clouds
settle three poles down the road (you know,

that land surrounding the castle and the dragon—that land
noone claims). I watch

my father in constant motion
between meals and the elsewhere which occurs
behind doors/downtown/across the street/at odd

angles to a drill press/tumbling through Sunday
in a shot glass/repairing the sofa/in the snow

of a Motorola black and white tv before
the test pattern mantra of tuned in.

I watch my father, but he never becomes.

6 comments:

Paula said...

This is strong with the father's presence almost touchable.

Peter Garner said...

I agree this is really strong work, Helm. The opening is excellent. Really draws the reader in.

H. W. Alexy said...

Peter, Paula, thanks. I've been struggling with trying to write a poem about my father for quite some time now.

So what happens? A glass of wine and twenty minutes. The next poem about my father may be ten years down the road before it's written (he says ruefully).

Helm.

Aisha said...

And the title!!!

Ending terrific..and what P and P said.

Aish-oo (have a cold)

H. W. Alexy said...

Thanks Aisha. I hope your cold gets better. Aquavit works...or kills, not quite certain which :).

Helm.

Aisha said...

Ask Ejlert :)))