Winter Passing

A poem inspired by the film "Winter Passing"

such an old man,

so sad,

and so ashamed,

his daughter drowning

her nostrils bleeding on a bus from manhattan,

working her way home to that old man

in an unfamiliarly familiar house

her old man sleeps in the garage now,

he is happier there with his bourbon,

and an ashtray,

and his typwriter,

and his regret

thick like the dust on all those books

and all their pages.

 

she's been gone so long her front door is closed,

her father sees her a ghost

like a page in one of his books

so far behind long gone,

she looks as desperate as she really is

but not for her father's signature below a dollar sign

followed by a silent train of numbers,

so father and daughter drink liquor out of coffee mugs

nurse amber liquid comfortability like early morning.

 

surrogate children grow accumulate like leaves beneath branches

like dark circles beneath tired eyes

like dust on neglected picture frames,

like words under a silent tongue with something to say

been under there so damn long

wouldn't know what to say if the chance was there.

 

all the furniture in the back yard

like after thought,

grace uttered at dinner over opposing untouched plates

and the small talk, is a blanket too small,

covering crying wounds covering change

dropping forks, staring blankly at pile of mashed potatos.

 

same stretch of road

same beat-up car,

walking up to bar like gunslinger

old west saloon style

and home isn't here anymore

but we do have a pretty decent open mic on wenesdays

and even though the barkeep is friendly

he knows that "crack cocaine will fry your brain,"

hows that for a rhyme?

 

rummaging in trunks looking for nothing in particular,

daughter knows its not about what you find

its about how you find it

and competition has never been so thick

like shared blood.

 

father wouldn't be protected so adamantly

so feverishly if he was actually a father,

still rummaging,

in the attic now looking for history

an artifact to jog memory

like the melody, of your favorite song covered in years and misuse

back when tomorrow was your future

and the stage became the only place to get a word in--

but the sun is eating the moon whole--

for s***s and giggles,

her father wakes alive with screams

alive with dreams in the backyard where his bed is,

standing his dizzy spells come more

the bourbon is always too far away

like the next paragraph of sentences

of phrases of words of letters of ideas

just give me a second he says--

but the sun is already going down--

his daughter is by the lake reading love letters written by the parents she didn't  know

she didn't know where her mother died

hung herself with a neck tie on the back of the study door

a coat hanger was all it took to hold her.

 

daughter drags a dead animal off that stretch of road

comes home to father at piano

choking his fingers into limping out that song mother used to play--

father is dissappointed in his daughter--who missed her mother's funeral--

missed it like her parents missed her career

missed her in the spotlight

surrogate son buries trace of humanity under dirt--

the daughters real and imagined converse

say the things father won't remember,

the letters full of jealousy

"falling into uninformative distracted half sentences

and then ending" like tapering of rain.

 

old man

stringy white hair envelopes his worn creased face with worry

with time with sorrow with smiles counted solely on fingers

on his knees in the muck and the s**t and the good times

and the bad times tried to forget

couldn't shake--like memories pushed aside on a shelf--

hanging on eyelashes--

hanging fingers on limp bruised hands swollen pale skin

marred by history and dresser drawers

and awkward silences made pregnant

"my jogging days are pretty much behind me."--

 

nervous surrogate son

quiet and alone on stage with his dedication

and his falsetto into sweating microphone

in a sad bar where beer is always stale

it doesn't laugh at those old jokes anymore.

short skips to garage

say goodnight to father

door opened calm ruptured

screamed name like a question

no response his face on the floor

more questions--

no response--

veins full of sleep

father finds no purpose

no purpose in so many books or even in his own

he lays sleeping

daughter stands in front of his mirror,

the one mother loved

daughter ties his tie

slowly, thoughtfully full of intention--

she has found her father's last novel buried--

daughter's eyes brim with reflection

of road from Michigan all the way to New York

where father questions

where daughter regrets

both realize lonliness

apologies rain, daughter's eyes red like theater curtain

gather what is left

bury all those words in the yard where father's humanity was.

 

no more regret

no more rearview mirrors

because the suns goin' down--

and I ain't got time for this--

no time for wondering

just enough to move on

her father's legs work through snow

light a cigarette--

blow smoke--

hope wind carries a father's love to a New York stage

hope wind carries love farther

let mother, and wife know we still remember her--

remind her we love her,

remind her we are still here--

in case she forgets.