[ebook_store ebook_id=”471″]            chairs

the canvas chair
our father would
lean back
uncertainly in
the grey curl the
oiled strands of
his hair could still
dry into he’d let
go over the
collar of shirts
no longer
stiff the flair
of a rembrandt
i’d think in the
drawing he did of
himself having
earned old age
pencilled beret askew
the once orange
canvas bleached out with
sun or gust of rain on
darkening afternoons an
open book left there
turned down on the
flattened cushion

the armchair where
you still find her
if lucky
the chair our
mother struggles
with eighty-five years
to rise from turning
first the light blue
of her eyes upward
toward you first
as if apologizing for
this damned difficult
age the chair
that cat would

her eyes tell
me for her
my father too
that humbleness
forbearance are
twin trees
under which love
may flower
not storm

i owe these
two trees the
memory of these
two beings who
were my first world
who let it grow
beyond them
whom i love
at the root

the chair i look
towards them from
where i am
found one leg
a little short
on a street
of stone

athens / beijing
march 2009

2 Responsesso far.

  1. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    Grazie, Marco. Another old one again. Reminding me I need to finish making notes on Canto XI and send back to you; cast aside for income and housing issues all these months!

  2. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    i remember this wonderful poem, Peter.

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