Father's Day

[Philatone]

V. 2
multiple changes...

The Phone Call on Father's Day
that sent you
into the bathroom
to turn on the water
has died, leaving us
separated
by running echoes.

Here we are,
our cards fallen on the mantel,
with nothing to say;

no words
to slack a fastened lock
or sliver through
a round keyhole,

no door to open grandfather's room
in Cleveland, where a bed
lifted with the last drop of breath,
and the news
fills telephone lines.

When the water stops,
mother orders me to dust his photograph
with a rag that cannot take away
the cane that waited
at his side, or how his hair
had become so grey

as memories
that spill from a faucet
with steam too considerate
to hide your reflection.




--------------------------------


Original

Father's Day

the phone call
that sent you
into the bathroom
and turned on the water
has died, leaving us
separated by echoes
of a tub and bolted door.

Here we are,
our plates being washed at a restaurant,
our cards fallen on the counter,
with nothing to say;

no words
to break a fastened lock
or sliver through
a round keyhole

until mother orders me
to dust grandfather's photograph
with a rag that cannot take away
the cane that waited
at his side, or how grey
his hair had become;

grey as memories
that spill from a faucet
with steam too considerate
to hide your reflection.