My Daughter Waiting

Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Sometimes at dusk she takes

me outside, down by the railroad

tracks, where she has found

something which has somersaulted

on the wind from a field nearby:

a white, greasy bag; a pizza

box; pieces of newspaper with each

story missing its ending. We

wait in the gray cold, blinders

of pine trees flanking our acre.

We just stand there, her

cheek against my hip of corduroy.

A train might go by, clacking

our chests and shimmering our feet,

or one might not. She’s happy.

She’s got a fat hand around hers,

the evening is lapping everything black,

and nothing can even get near her.

Each story missing its ending. (Credit: sandya / Wikimedia Commons)

Note: This poem was first published in slightly different form in a 1988 edition of Mudfish that also included poems by Barry Spacks, Jill Hoffman, and John Ashbury. The speaker here isn’t me, but some guy I thought up.

Another note: I have a guest post today at www.kerryswindingroad.com. I invite you to check out Kerry’s great blog as well as my essay about watching your children walk away from you. Enjoy.