Yes, it was still there when I left St. Louis.  
Mother’s painting of their Alaskan cruise.   
A fjord, its glacier.  
 
No focal point.  Instead, two mountain peaks 
separated by a sheer divide.  
Two different shades of blue drifting gray.
 
Came to me among her things.  
Erosion in acrylic.  Its cold meaning
took me a long time.  
 
Blue can be a bitter color.  
Truth of a glacier sounds at night, muffled 
snapping and popping through the bedroom door.  
 
One day the painting shocked me.  
All those years above her couch.  
Dad wouldn’t have seen the metaphor.  
 
He lived where she couldn’t reach: 
algorithms, programs, databases.  
Had he seen, he wouldn’t have said.  
 
He sometimes took me camping with him.  
We didn’t talk.  Glad to be away. 
Everyone obscures what they’d rather be.  
 
After his last surgery, he built his strength.  
Went back to Alaska. Had heard about 
a gold camp above Arctic Circle.  Strong 
 
enough for two weeks in a primitive cabin.  
Rough bunks around a single light; oil stove;  
cards and warmth; silence of men.  
 
And in his turn at the sluice, 
found three small nuggets—enough 
to make her earrings and a pendant.  
 
After the truck left and I was locking up, 
the painting was still on the wall, 
overlooked.  Perhaps subconsciously.  
 
I have the earrings, pendant.  
Take them out sometimes.  
Try their weight in my hand. 
                        

Sonora Desert, México.  
Only wind sound.  Still 
a day from San Diego.  
No hurry.  Darkness
edging in under gray sky, 
so Dad turns off 
Federal Highway 2 
looking for a campsite.  
The track fades at a flat spot
between two domes   
where someone gave up moving 
stones off the sand to make a road.  
No tire marks.  Dry silence.  
 
Not so much as a vulture.
Volcanic debris field.  
Rocks shoulder to shoulder, 
a badly laid floor.  Fire-hardened
clink when moved.  Easier
to empty the station wagon 
than move enough rocks 
for sleeping bags.  And
we don’t know 
what hunts here at night.  
 
No fire.  No wood.  No lights.  
Wind presses into our eardrums; 
suppresses conversation.  
Bologna sandwiches and 
water from the Lister bag. 
 
I wake in unexpected light.  
through the car windows.  
Waxing moon hangs 
above one of the domes.  
Not silver.  Not silken.  
Sharp points.   
Shadowed stones 
freeze in their march 
toward the car.  I fumble 
for my glasses.
                        

A Saint Louis street savant, 
face and neck the leather 
of making a living from rebuff, 
lounges on a shaded bench, his legs 
angling down Washington.  
He works a toothpick 
across a surface of indifference—
as if he’d just finished a satisfying dinner. 
 
He’s got a good spot.  
The toothpick bobs up and down:  
a young couple holding hands, 
headed toward the night spots.  
Summer freckles their faces,  Bare shoulders
brushing slightly, make them smile. 
 
He greets them, dropping the toothpick
into his pocket as though remembering his manners,
and smiles, isn’t it pleasant for August? 
 
And asks for the time.  
   And seeing the young man is smoking, 
could he spare one?  
   And as the boy shakes one out, 
does he have a light?  
   And as he reaches out with the lighter, 
does he have any spare change?   
 
Behind him she’s crossed her arms; 
walks to the corner.  A stiff finger, 
punches the crossing signal.  
 
The panhandler makes his thanks. 
Looks the boy in the face and 
with a jerk of his chin 
throws him back to her.
Pockets his score. 
It’s a good spot.  
He resets the toothpick.