Little Motel-Modest Mouse
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqQTODR3kR8
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Branches
Sometimes people tell me
that I look like
my father.
He has a warmly
contradictory
face,
the kind that makes you feel
safe.
He's smiling
and sad,
but with that childlike
life lingering in his eyes,
the way families will stay
too late at night
and the party
gets quiet
because no one wants
to go home,
but they know
that they have to.
Sometimes on a
Saturday
while Mom was making lunch,
I used to climb onto
his shoulders
like how kids
climb trees.
He was sturdy
(like dads are)
so I could afford
to be reckless.
He was even beginning
to lose his hair
the way trees do
in September,
but I didn't notice
this, or the cracks
in his skin.
I didn't think
anything of his
weathered veins
back then.
Sometimes we would dance
around the living room
with the TV on.
I would plant my
bare, pink feet
atop his sneakeres.
He would sing or hum
(and I thought
this was silly),
and we'd dance
our clumsy waltz
around, around;
me in my flannel
nightgown,
and we'd leave
only one set
of footprints
in the carpet.
I think I have his eyes.
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