Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Six 2004 |
street sonnet * Rhonda C Poynter for my father, dying in the prison infirmary Old Man, you sleep through my arrival. I need no apology; I understand the act: a heart’s survival In a place it didn’t have to be. I look through the bureau drawers, Push the control buttons on your bed And ring the nurse for juice. I’m bored, Blowing smoke rings above your head. Old Man, I’m still the crazy one Who never meant to be Standing after all the rest have gone, But you taught me well – I’m a scrapper, too. You’ll see, Lions could be loosed in these hallways and nobody would care. White hearts line the doorway as I hold my shadow and comb back its hair. * first appeared in Start the Car |
About Rhonda C Poynter |