Father and Son, By FREDERICK FEIRSTEIN
Awkward, the winter whirling behind us
Through monolithic towers of glass,
Not through medieval woods where your death
Is private and unbearable, we wait.
I want to hold your hand, and yet you walk
Away, the snow spotting your face, your hair,
Back through the drifts quaintly, forcing a show
Of courage, when I want to speak once more.
What do we do with death in this cold age,
When neglect piles bodies up like worn-out tires,
When. . .? Suddenly a clock strikes Now .
My hand twitches like a tuning fork.
I expect a horseman in a black mask
To gallop down the avenue and snatch me up,
Not you, because I’m still a child and you
Must whip him off, not stoop into a cab
Whose whitening windows slowly lose your face.
(copyright) 1991 by Frederick Feirstein. Reprinted by permission of Story Line Press.