I remember him sitting at the kitchen table, cold

formica, looking as if he’d already made up his mind; his world

around him: stacks of old newspapers, crystal glass

ashtrays filled with tobacco ash; the old roll-top desk

he refinished years ago, covered with scraps of paper, things he knew

he couldn’t afford to lose; his city garden–the tomatoes,

and lettuce, cucumbers still dormant, waiting.  His almost-

grown children behind him just beyond his reach as they

always were.  He looked resigned, like he couldn’t see the point

of making his way through what had always been

right in front of him.

 

He stumbled the city block around our house, looking

for what he needed, or wanted, as if he could find

the day I ran off, my clothes packed.  Behind me

my father standing in the doorway

of my life, his bulky body blocking my way.

 

At the kitchen table he looked at me

with tired eyes, his voice a whisper in the dark.  I was indifferent,

taking what was mine, things I didn’t want

to leave behind.

 

 

.