My Father Smiled
That snowy
December day
As he reached over
And scrunched the speeding ticket
Into the glove compartment
Speaking in a quiet voice with a slow tone
I had never heard before
To the very short policeman
And why are you looking at me now?
Sometimes in an elevator
In one of the great cities
I'll smell his after shave lotion
And look around at the empty air
I like that I like
that a lot
John McKernan—who grew up in
Omaha Nebraska in the middle of the USA—is now a retired comma herder after
teaching 41 years at Marshall University. He lives in West Virginia and
Florida. His most recent book is a selected poems, Resurrection of the
Dust. He has published poems in The
Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, Virginia Quarterly Review,
The Journal, Antioch Review, Guernica, Field, and many other magazines.
|