I Call From Airports

My father is always glad to hear from me.  He lives in a shrinking world and drives a car that only knows five places to go.  He mostly stays within his own walls and the accumulation of years, preparing, waiting, eying the bottle of caramel colored liquor a dozen times a day.  I call from airports, making his day, answering the same questions, offering continuity, knowing that one day the news won't be good and that, like all living things, his voice will grow slower, tired, Memphis drawl more pronounced until, as his twilight takes greater hold, we have another innocuous conversation for me to return to again and again.

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

Why Did the Turtle Cross the Road?

My father asks me why the
Turtle crossed the road,
A riddle to test my memory
Because he's presented the same joke
Dozens of times.
He knows he has posed the challenge before,
Often starting with
I might have told you this already,
Which is almost always true.
The real puzzle is whether I should
Stop him,
Or halt him early enough.
If he gets too far into the brainteaser
I don't have the heart to
Interrupt,
So I pretend it's fresh,
Throwing my head back
Laughing loudly and
Slapping my leg.
But I often jump in quickly to say,
Yes, you've told it
Many times
Don't you remember?
It's infuriating to hear the same riddle
Over and over,
Told the same way
And now so ingrained in my mind
That I dream about the damned turtle,
Following it to its ordained destination,
Helping it avoid cars.
Such honesty makes him sad.
I always regret it.
I should give him the joy of telling a fresh joke,
Let him have his silly old riddle
And allow the tired turtle
To cross the road
To get to the Shell station.

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

This Side of Heaven

Amelia's obsession was to
Circumnavigate the globe.
She followed fate and passion to a
Midnight departure from
Lae, New Guinea, 1937,
But never made it to
Howland Island.
Flying low and almost out of gas,
The Lockheed Electra fell silent,
Taking her passengers into decades of
Mystery and conjecture.
My father was eight went the water chose her,
And he has claimed the enigma as
His own obsession,
Fretting over the aviator's disappearance,
Reading every book,
Hoping that this or that story,
Would reveal the riddle.
Now, a new search has spotted suspicious debris
At the bottom of the ocean
Where her plane should be.
They will soon head back to a spot off Kiribati
For a close look.
But my father, aging and worried,
Fears he may not last long enough to hear the news,
And has asked that, if the plane is found,
I bring the news to his grave.
I will, I tell him, finding composure,
I'll bring a chair and a fresh bottle of Chivas,
Sit by your grave and read the article,
Maybe sprinkle some scotch over you,
I promise.
He says, I'd like that very much.
Still, hurry search party,
Head quickly to the underwater grave and bring back
Astonishing news immediately,
While my father is alive and can appreciate it on this side of heaven,
So he can solve the puzzle and enjoy the surprise.
There will always be a time for chairs and scotch.

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

At Your Sunset

I am sorry your afternoon is
Moving so slowly. 
Every day is Saturday,
Which sounds wonderful
But leaves you untethered.
I should have called you before
My phone rang today. 
Important news about
Amelia Earhart, and how
Eagle Scouts contribute to society. 
I don't need to read The Journal anymore, because I get the good news from you.
I want you all to get along
When I'm gone, you repeat
For the hundredth time,
And don't fight over things.
OK, I promise.
And when you say you are proud
I file that away to use. 
Your life, so organized and neat,
Now waits for its finish.
Each day filled with 
Anticipation, preparation, wondering, 
Perhaps morbidly hoping, if this will be your last,
And remembering one more box to sort through, label, instruct.
Everything orderly and
In its place.
I will sing Red Sails in the Sunset
At your sunset
And then start my own
Too short wait. 

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

Graphic by Nevit Dilmen