Laura Jensen
	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.