Looked at papi (90+ the other day) and wondered:
what sun beams – spirit, gene or grund –
through tree leaves track my trail.
His hair has thinned but he enjoys the prayer mode
console of the barber chair, the valet snip snip of scissors.
His brother, back in the islands, had the holy grey beard
of the village healer; full facial hair to signify wisdom,
scruffy importance, or mystic herb manhood; he'd rub
his finger rings for luck, trace routes for repatriation.
His brother, tooled for harvest like no one else, strip bladed
cane limbs found off citrus lanes; then as his fires waned
turned Baptist preacher, still believing he could make
hips sway mouths moan while the children
fidgeted on hard benches.
More taciturn, papi’s a shortwave man; falls asleep to World
News Today. Among his found new habits: a moving bowel
scan; hot cold good morning! shower; baseball homers, collard
lasagna; head bobbing to Armstrong’s “Dream A Little Dream”;
old math skills once thought worth less; & his blood truce
with our wriggling ancestors.
He had two wives; the first one left, the second died;
he's walked brick towered over, shoved subway platform lines.
When time check lights, he figures, despite filed office white
teeth, wide east west numbered streets of strangers
not all kind, he’s had a good life here.
For heaven's sake, don’t pause and brood,
or perch like Rodin's man props chin,
on toilet seats, he warns, the expert now.
-W.W.
CLOSE-UP & FADE:
This old man is a mist's or cloud's blur
that, focusing itself, dissolves
without raining or snowing.
In the depth of his dark field,
he frames you mirroring his fate
of appearing and having to fade,
and he climbs back to his vision's sleep
disturbed to no issue but this
shadow of your youth passing
close, and too late.
(from “Within The Wind" © Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 