Father and Son, By FREDERICK FEIRSTEIN

Awkward, the winter whirling behind us

Through monolithic towers of glass,

Not through medieval woods where your death

Is private and unbearable, we wait.

I want to hold your hand, and yet you walk

Away, the snow spotting your face, your hair,

Back through the drifts quaintly, forcing a show

Of courage, when I want to speak once more.

What do we do with death in this cold age,

When neglect piles bodies up like worn-out tires,

When. . .? Suddenly a clock strikes Now .

My hand twitches like a tuning fork.

I expect a horseman in a black mask

To gallop down the avenue and snatch me up,

Not you, because I’m still a child and you

Must whip him off, not stoop into a cab

Whose whitening windows slowly lose your face.

(copyright) 1991 by Frederick Feirstein. Reprinted by permission of Story Line Press.