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The Salesman’s Son
The returning always seems
swifter than the leaving until
you get closer to where you leave
again. Then time expands, stretching
out like thick rubber bands
that bound his mileage books together.
I hated his leaving: never there
ever present eyes that followed
me every day of my life. They haunt
me even now. I don’t remember
a day hating him, not really;
no animosity there—
just a pained and plain indifference.
Ever-present-always-absent.
I used to want to wish him to Hell.
But I could not bring myself
to care that much.
The room still carries the scent of urine
reminiscent of my father
on his final birthday
two weeks before he said goodbye
the last time. The leaving now
somehow seemed longer than
before. The regretful ragged breath
could never express his hazel eyes.
Time expands, stretching out
and then he is gone once again.
The Literary Lion
We wander into an old
book store: into a palace
of pages, this tomb of tomes—
and there we drink tea
surreptitiously stealing
words. Feeling the guilt
of my theft and to make
amends I procure
a lean chapbook of poems.
Baptized into the bright
light flooding through
streaked window pane
I find myself crying
out with Isaiah over
prison cells, saying
Kiddush for a day old
child, wandering empty
down the streets of old
Manhattan: an immigrant friend
of homeless children. 
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