The Poetry Life: Ten Stories
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When I look around his little apartment whose décor consists
largely of oxygen canisters and aquariums (my dad has always liked
tropical fish), I see some books of poetry I once gave him. The better
part of a sixteenth of an inch of dust has come to rest on them. My dad
isn’t much for cleaning what wants to be left undisturbed. Still, he
hasn’t thrown them into a garbage pail or an incinerator. “It’s not
going to compete with TV or Hollywood,” he once told me when I informed
him that my first book of verse was going to be published. I could hear
the treble of parental determination in his voice. He was letting me
down easy. He was telling me one of those home truths a parent has to
impart. His voice had a wise, reasonable gentleness that I loved. I
agreed with him and shook my head with grateful resignation. Anything a
son and father can agree upon is precious. |
