will you still love me?
The loop of rusty cable incises
its shadow on the stucco wall.
My father smiles shyly and takes
one of my cigarettes, holding it
awkwardly at first,
as if it were
a dart, while the yard slowly
swings across the wide sill
Then it is a young man’s
that rises to his lips, he leans against the wall,
his white shirt open at the throat,
where the skin is weathered, and
he chats and
he is even
younger than I am,
a brother who
begins to guess,
amazed, that what
he will do will turn out
to be this.
He recalls the house
when I was born, leaning against it
now after work, the pale stucco
of memory, 1947.
Baby bottles stand near the sink inside.
The new wire of the telephone, dozing
in a coil, waits for the first call.
The years are smoke.
Reginald Gibbons (also born 1947)
Reginald Gibbons. All rights reserved.