An Alchemy of Words

Shoulders

"Shoulders"

Hunched over with father,

young,

you're maybe ten years old

amidst the smoky cough of men

who munch thoughtfully on donuts.

You,

hunched over with a boredom earned

through the lack of illusion

in your life, all the while father

reads the sports:

HULL GIVES RED WINGS THE BLUES

he turns the page and his eyes

slip across the words,

the prime time listings,

to you,

your red flannel shirt the hallmark

of your generation

and your nation

all in one.

Father draws on his morning cigarettes,

smoke curling around

salt and pepper hair,

his eyes drifting over the young woman

behind the counter,

her white shirt, her short black skirt,

her pantyhose with a stillborn run

and you, you return from

a phone call to mother:

SHE WANTS TO COME

BUT SHE CAN'T.

SHE'S TOO CONTAGIOUS.

SHE SAID SHE WANT TO COME SHE SAID

BUT SHE'S TOO--

(CONTAGIOUS.)

Red sneakers step

on a father's toes for height

and a flannel arm

laces itself across a father's smoky shoulders

for an embrace that's thick with frightened love.