My father sits in his chair.
He is the Sovereign of Silence.
Señor Silencio, we tease him.
I see here his noble profile
Against the sliding glass door.
He sits tall, his deaf ear towards the room
Where the rest of us sit
Playing gin rummy around the table.
Raucous, Tinny Teenagers
Smelly, Course, Unfiltered.
(My mother speaks over the din confirming her existence.)
He sits tall, his hearing ear towards the garden,
Listens with his good ear:
Lush, Southern Tropics
An ecstatic air
Angel’s Trumpets, Elephant Ears,
Fire Cracker Vines.
Cicadas praying sheltered in the cemetery ferns,
Mosquito hawks’ whirring wings
Hovering above the mockingbirds
Singing inside the fading shade of the crepe myrtle,
Stripping with abandon its voluptuous blossoms:
Beguiling bamboula.
He listens to his childhood
In the Land of the Eternal Spring.
