~This poem
previously appeared in Alimentum
(2010).
Contest
of Wills
Unwilling to
eat the pea soup,
I sat at the
kitchen table facing my father,
who, at
thirty-five, was more powerful
than a
locomotive, able to leap tall buildings
at a single bound.
I tried
sobbing, my head bobbing
pitifully over
my shallow chest; but inexorably,
he continued to
read the Chicago Sun Times.
Our wills and
the soup between us petrified,
the ham pieces
becoming aggregates
for geologists
to discover ages hence
while unearthing
the ancient Windy City,
and discovering
two perfectly preserved figures
of father and
son sitting at a table
with a single
spoon and common bowl between them.
And, as we
contested, Hyakutake streaked across the night sky,
The Millennium
turned, The Second Coming came and went,
and the Chicago
Cubs won The World Series.
The universal
clock continued to tick away:
eleven, twelve,
one a.m.,
when suddenly,
my father’s head dipped.
Our eyes met.
Resigned, yet undefeated,
he said, “Get to bed.”
Old enough now
to be father to the man,
I rose
silently, and passing behind his chair,
gently trailed
my fingers across his back.
*****
