Vacated Blood

One by one
As the children leave
We linger over their faces on the wall
And empty rooms that paint pictures
Of their energy and noise
Parties and locked doors
Struggles and freedom.
The youngest turns 16
And moves downstairs
Not away from us
But for us
A gift
A merciful halfway step
So it becomes familiar
Easing into emptiness.
I call my dead
Understanding where his heart hurts
Fill him up with a strong dose of me
Hoping the world will return the favor
That one day
My vacated blood
Will dial me with news of the day, too.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: Poem Fix 

Mr. Penney

Poppy was from a small village near Minsk,
And then a grocer in a small Memphis shop
Already then in the bad part of town.
They called him
Mr. Penney,
The prior owner's name.
His father, a peddler, pushed a cart through town and
Died before anyone could remember.
Grandma wore an apron,
Helped stock the few shelves,
Canned goods, meats, cigarettes.
They figured out how to
Make a living
And three boys
Who had the freedom to
Grow up in black and white America
And away from them,
To speak without accents,
Obedient and deferential.
Poppy died from tired lungs and a weak heart,
Grandma from too much caring and a broken one.
I carry the torch for them
So my children, less one,
Will visit Minsk one day to
Discover everything lost to hate,
And visit me
Convalescing
Memorializing Mr. Penney.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Transit Limbo

I sit in an airport again,
Waiting for a pilot
To take me to another airport.
A half-hour delay drags into three hours.
Exploring dingy newsstands,
Bagel kiosks,
Crummy restaurants with day-old nachos.
My back hurts from sitting, waiting,
Calculating time,
Draining the laptop battery.
Next to me, the purple lady with bad lipstick complains.
This is the worst thing ever, she says,
I'm never flying this airline again.
I tell her to blame the storm ripping through the region,
But she looks at me as if I have a social disease.
Weather, shmeather, she says,
Flying used to be fun, used to be glamorous,
Now they treat you like criminals.
I move away from her and sit across from a woman,
With explosive cleavage.
I try not to notice and put my head down.
I figure out what time it is at home and where I'm headed,
Heavy math,
Wondering if the hotel will save my room.
I think about my kids and where they might be
And what they're doing,
My wife who's sitting in bed alone.
One more day I won't see them,
Good or bad,
Absent father.
Living in airports.
If all the time I waited came together,
How much time would I have?
And what would I do with it to make me a better man?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Siblings After Supper

Parents retreat to the living room
Playing Broadway show records,
South Pacific, Carousel, Fiddler
While children clean up after dinner.
The daughter, with rising resentment,
Washes the dishes,
Gazing out the kitchen window at the world and its promise of
Boys and escape.
The oldest son,
Fresh from football victory,
His curled locks combed just so,
Shirtless, joking,
Dries the pans,
Cracks the damp towel near
His sister's rear.
Little middle man clears the table,
The easy job,
Moving the plates to the counter,
Sweeping crumbs into his hand,
Squirting blue on the table and
Wiping the streaks to pass inspection,
Then running upstairs to Jules Verne.
The last, too young for chores,
Getting ready for bed,
Doesn't wonder about injustice,
But hums along to Then You May Take Me to the Fair,
Soundtrack of their lives,
Wafting through the house
With the destined future nostalgia of
Place, time, comfort.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012