March 2017
Alan Walowitz
ajwal328@gmail.com
ajwal328@gmail.com
I'm a retired teacher and school administrator and I've written poetry, seriously and less than seriously, since I was a teenager. It's only recently that I've taken seriously the idea of sharing my poems beyond these four walls—where they're met with great acclaim by my wife and sometimes by my daughter—and my poems have appeared in journals, e-zines, and anthologies. My chapbook, Exactly Like Love, is published by Osedax Press, and a second printing is now available.
The Anniversary Song
My father steps off the running board
of our old Chevrolet.
As he goes, he whistles
his favorite song, lively and low:
Oh, how we danced
on the night we were wed.
But death and dreams slow the senses
of the dreamer and the dead
and he pretends not to know me,
even when I pick up the tune to whistle along.
He heads into the bank
and might be looking for trouble,
the way his fedora is pulled
low to his ears, half over his eyes.
But, no, he’s come for a loan;
this won’t take long, I say to myself.
Soon the officer, armed only
with pressed suit and glad hand—
What’s there not to like, a man
who can carry a tune and has a story to tell?—
presses his elbow firmly at the door
to make sure he won’t be back.
My father nods his head as he passes,
no whistling now, and a word isn’t said.
I jump in the car alone, pull away,
both hands on the wheel.
Don’t turn to stare at the wreck;
it only slows traffic, my father would say.
Then, as an incantation against bad dreams,
I tell myself again and again:
Just as well. Just as well—
He wouldn’t know what to do with the money.
-first appeared in Exactly Like Love (Osedax Press)
My father steps off the running board
of our old Chevrolet.
As he goes, he whistles
his favorite song, lively and low:
Oh, how we danced
on the night we were wed.
But death and dreams slow the senses
of the dreamer and the dead
and he pretends not to know me,
even when I pick up the tune to whistle along.
He heads into the bank
and might be looking for trouble,
the way his fedora is pulled
low to his ears, half over his eyes.
But, no, he’s come for a loan;
this won’t take long, I say to myself.
Soon the officer, armed only
with pressed suit and glad hand—
What’s there not to like, a man
who can carry a tune and has a story to tell?—
presses his elbow firmly at the door
to make sure he won’t be back.
My father nods his head as he passes,
no whistling now, and a word isn’t said.
I jump in the car alone, pull away,
both hands on the wheel.
Don’t turn to stare at the wreck;
it only slows traffic, my father would say.
Then, as an incantation against bad dreams,
I tell myself again and again:
Just as well. Just as well—
He wouldn’t know what to do with the money.
-first appeared in Exactly Like Love (Osedax Press)
© 2017 Alan Walowitz
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