The Con Artist’s Daughter
My father the thief — gold watch,
chocolate bar, pack of hot dogs.
I observed his technique, nonchalance
as he slipped a steak under his jacket,
palmed a pedometer into his pocket,
even the Salvation Army bucket —
he’d ring the bell, charm the neighbors
out of change. I copied him —
paisley dress rolled in my suede bag —
the cops cuffed me, held me until
they figured I learned a lesson —
if I didn’t get caught again
the arrest would be expunged.
I fell in love with that word,
practiced saying it: x-sponged —
the record levitating out
of a file drawer, the page effaced.
I did learn my lesson:
to be a better crook, pay for one
candy bar and lift another,
buy a shirt and saunter out
wearing three bras. At some point
I quit, wiped the mirror
and realized it was a window —
dad’s gaze evaporated.
In its place,
my vague outline
mapping onto the world.
* * * * *
The First Time He Visited His Dead Wife
Five weeks after she died
he took the train to Queens,
lawnchair in one hand
Sunday paper in the other —
when he tried to talk
he felt foolish, aware
of shifting dirt, the plot
not yet settled — he sat off
to the side, wondered about
a headstone: mother, wife, truly
how could you leave me?
But clear on one thing —
no birth or death date,
he didn’t want to fix time,
or learn what happens
to language set in granite —
that night he thinks about
the stone, its stolid phrases
and weight of words — he curls
into an emptied space,
waits for certainty,
for the ground to settle.
Enjoyed these, thanks!