They say the streets are dirty
but you could eat off the sidewalks,
their names with z and k sounds,
the granite steps worn and shining
from the corn brooms they leaned on
beside the old stick chairs,
surveying passersby like invading soldiers.
My father used to lean on his rake that way,
his arms folded in a wool shirt, ankles crossed,
what was left of the farm in that pose,
the hay rakes and shovels of Ireland,
his hands callused but with a soft grip,
reluctant to take much into his hands
except the cigarette and the old rake,
the fallen leaves a ritual for him,
even when he couldn’t leave the bed
staring out the window,
the thoughts he had unspoken
until he’d ask how he looked
and I’d look away for answer enough,
and he’d say “if I weren’t sitting here I’d be fine”
as if only the pose made him ill,
if the rake were beneath him
brushing the broad maple leaves
that would keep him here and us together.
I’m almost as old as him now
finding my hand beneath my chin,
scratching my beard in the same way,
looking through the window to the gray sky
thinking if I weren’t just sitting here..
my hands not as calloused
but the same soft grip
reluctant to take too much
but wanting to stay,
to sweep the earth
and keep the thread alive.