An Oboe for Me and Grandpa
The oboe solo on the tv slows his shouting to a purr,
his feet tapping its rhythm as the sores break open.
Still his smile lingers as he says no. Always a smile
when he says no. Mom would make us chant
no begging no whining no fussing no crying. And then we
became the no. Couldn’t he hold the glue and finish
our model planes? One at a time, his lungs say no.
Filling thick and slow, to be drained like his martinis,
no and a smile with an oboe. The joints
of my plane could grow wings if he nurtured
soft wood and small things. This flight deck
is a place I want to know, if only if only
if only that oboe would play again.
If only I could know and know and know.
.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026