Papa Poet

This poem is for my wife of nearly forty years. We recently visited the city of her difficult childhood for the first time. I stand in awe. I rest in her love.

Champaign

Six, eight, ten years old
all of those, none of those
but no more than ten
blocks to school
under the railroad
through the park (except at night)
but never home, always
never home
near the wall of the Y
tip-toe high
it may as well be a prison
walling out the poor, huddled urchin
begging to be free of whys
and the grave.

One, three, as many as five
bars and rooms above bars
and barred windows
on rooms above bars
boarded shut
perhaps to entomb a toy
or a penny worried
into a wooded crack
or saved for a rainy day
but they’re in the box
like Cool Hand Luke
singing arias abbligato
into headless meters
and the rain.

Twenty, thirty, forty
years hence all still stand
closer than memory allows
the unconfirmed to kneel
and eat the illicit bread
from the father’s hand
though the kneelers are moved
and the chamber echoes empty,
“Dwell a while in sanctuary, my child”
dwell in the womb of protection
now and then and then to come
when even that becomes decay
and plaster and bell peel an end
and a beginning.