Poetry

Some Days Are Grimmer Than the Rest

for my son, Wade (1963-1993)

Driving Home from the Retirement Party

Prayer for the Virtuous Pagans

My Lord, let me begin with David Miller
whose eldest son is now a pillar
of your temple and your priest,
whose younger sons are struggling with the Beast.
Let David behold your face.

And Lord I pray for my own father,
pray too for my little brother,
my sisters and my mother
who lack your sacramental grace.
May all my heathen kin behold your face.

Fault

We glide into the room to sit
In high-backed chairs and slide the plate
Across a line. We shift a bit

To face our food, lurch, hesitate,
Suspended at a table where
Fixed, unconvenable we wait.

Inseparable, this weight we bear
Yet stubbornly we subdivide,
Recalculate the other’s share

For My Father

           ‘ . . . discord which has ripped
           you from your father, stripped
           away known places, play and friends . . .’
                   – Andrew Waterman, ‘For My Son’

A policeman blocks the road so I stop
and tut and tap the wheel and find a sweet
and scrape it through its wrapper with my teeth.
More cars stop. Then bright rustling up the street
from snare drums and some reedy trumpet-calls
remind us all what day it is. In front