FIVE THOUSAND THINGS
And we remember them all like the mink in your old
aunt's coat, or the sugar in the old sugar bowl; your
penny whistle when your were ten, those shoes your
mother made you wear, and that hat. The flowers your
grandmother carried on the train ride through New York,
the 'waiting for wilting tour', you called it later. She'd
been pick-pocketed, and had nothing left, so she just kept
riding the subway all up and down, to think what to do.
carrying those tearful flowers. She finally got out again,
at some return stop to forty-second street, and called
a policeman over. He gave her a dollar for a phone call
and coffee. An hour or two later, her ride finally arrived.
That was your father. The old Plymouth he drove, the
'53, with the clipper ship on the hood as an ornament,
the little metal boat you never forgot. Like the Indian
head on the old Pontiacs too. The way the fountain water
was never high enough, no pressure; you wound up
sucking the metal, and only God knew what else.
The way Life is made of memories; the pet bird
in its cage, the way the canary sings.
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