|My Father At Times
My father at times would say aloud
out of the quiet alive light
that was our house
he would say, as though it was
after a hesitation, he would say, oh -
and no one would say anything.
Then he would continue.
He would say my mother's name
and then the sentence that followed
would be about something he remembered
or about something that needed to be done
or about something he had just read in the paper.
And she would answer him.
A Poem and What a Poem Has Become
At a long yard, a set-back small old house
three or four steps up from the sidewalk
there is a poem and what a poem has become.
On the short bank there is a chainsaw eagle.
On the short knotted grass of the bank, by the sidewalk
There is a cobweb draped across the lower part.
The eagle's face looks down and to its left.
And this is like a crucifix. One wing
shows yellow at a seam where once it was glued on.
One half of the base is torn. The day is overcast.
Other yard sale remnants with it are uneven and few.
The six-lane traffic goes past relentlessly.