My Daughter Waiting
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.
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.