Trash Day

The garbage can sits like an old man
at the psychologist’s office,
filled till brimming,
and that old trash collector of a doctor
lifts that man off his curb
with a question as defined
as Mr. Universe’s forearm;
shakes him up a bit
and leaves him lying listless—
a hollowed and humbled receptacle.

In The DuPage Medical Group Lobby

she sits in a narrow pew,
a lady in waiting,
with questions plowed
into a furrowed brow,
wondering if this sanctuary
of sterility will supply a safe haven
or the long ordeal of faith.
She is ushered into discovery,
attendants at her side,
the weight of years before her
as she stands in the balance,
dressed in an open-backed gown
and veiled with possibility
of being wed to pain—
when at the alter, with hand extended,
she takes the vow of drawn blood
and commits to knowing.

Dad

for Manfred Walter Kürt Haase

You wear loyalty like the lines you draw—
faithful to their intent,
long and linear through the years,
perspective always in place.

Set out on the drafting table of life,
one begins to see the blueprint of fatherhood:

A structure designed to handle the stress
of youthful winds and pressures,
rooms drawn for safety and provision,
the square footage marked for open dwelling
whose ceiling of paternal love is set high,
whose foundation is the indelible mark
of a graphite line becoming a chalk line
becoming the brick and mortar of a family line—

Lines carried from your brow to your hands
face me in the mirror as I shave
and in the topography of my children…