City

The pulse is uncertain here
My blood flows, but does haltingly
Pausing at the stop signs, red lights

The river runs small and slender down my spine
Slow and thoughtful, the nerves float meandering downstream
Crooked and winding as the hunchback
Of this city

But the workday finishes, and urgency strikes
We must go forward
We cannot wait for boats wandering aimlessly
We must cross
My ribcage drawbridge is lowered

My lungs, crushed, collapse
And the fumes pour out into the air
It all escapes.

My Father Says

You should wear stripes, my father says,
They make you look wider.
You’re too thin, he says,
Not wide enough.

Your hands are so soft, my father says,
never had hard work.
His rough ones enclose mine.

Your grandfather was good with these things, my father says
Still is.
He worked as a carpenter, he says,
for much of his life.

You should wear stripes, my father says
You’re too thin.
He stands before me, wide-shouldered.
Is he wide as his dreams, I wonder;
Am I thin as mine?