The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Michael Lauchlan

Sunlight on Granite

All it is is sunlight on granite.

—Robert Hass, "Breach and Orison"

The indignity of being just a man
going west in a freight car,
freezing, fleeing luck or debt—
or maybe doing 75
in a four wheel pop can
chasing what might be a job—
and needing most to take a piss
and then to sleep for days.
And from the train my dad
didn't take because the war
took him or from my Honda,
we watch light linger on a rock
face as though the sun has done
its bit just for us. Some night,
decades apart, we'll walk
into our homes, each of us,
to find our wives have dressed,
have gotten the kids stowed
somehow, have put on rouge,
and, like this dusk, it'll be
more right than ever again—
at least for my old man
since the war stole more
than its share. For me, such
days stretch out like cats
on a ledge in late summer
until the sun fades to black
and leaves no mark on the rock
when the long dark resumes.

Coffee