Words of My Father

in central park pausing
at the statue
of christopher columbus
someone has put a brown paper bag
in christopher's hand
he looks like a construction worker
waiting for his morning ride
wonder what's in that bag
gold dust
a half kilo of grass
somebody's underpants
a ruptured rosary
or just some brittle orange peels
enriched white bread crusts
and wrinkled wax paper
probably the latter
nobody knows for sure
except the guy who put it there
and maybe chris
i'd climb up and take a peek
except i kind of like
the way it looks
that's the kind of thinking
that let aristotle get away
with being wrong
about how many teeth
were in a horse's mouth
for so goddamn long
but so what
i'm happy

a lady sang on the subway this morning
moving from car to car
keeping rhythm to the tapping
of her white cane
out of every eight or nine of us one
dropped a coin in her copper cup
the rest just sat or stood en
grossed in the fantasies
of our own realities
opting out
i dropped a quarter
got a thank you
gave a you're welcome
and can't remember
the song she was singing

there she goes again
the little old lady
	hair falling out in front
there she goes again
the little old lady
	head bowed down
eyes fixed ascant footstep ahead

there she goes again
the little old lady
	muttering to herself
agonizing each decision
to cross or not to cross
	to turn or not to turn
no to this and nix on that
there she goes
	the little old lady
		tottering home again
the white house
	with the iron fence

daddy
	yes, michael
i know who god is, daddy
he's my friend

god is my friend, kevie
you better be good or he'll make you dead
	don't cry, kevin
	mikie was only teasing

snuggle with me, daddy
i'm afraid of the dark
	what about god, mikie
	he's your friend, isn't he
god can't snuggle with me, daddy
he had to go home

crusading flake
intent opaque
uncurls upon the windowpane
and softly makes a piece of rain