Rhonda C. Poynter

street sonnet

for my father, dying in the prison infirmary

Old Man, you sleep through my arrival.
I need no apology:
I understand the act--a heart's survival
In a place it didn't have to be.
I look through the bureau drawers,
Push the control buttons on your bed
And ring the nurse for juice: I'm bored,
Blowing smoke rings above your head.
Old Man, I'm still the crazy one
Who never meant to be
Standing after all the rest have gone,
But you taught me well--I'm a scrapper, too. You'll see.

Lions could be loosed in these hallways and nobody would care.
White hearts line the doorways as I hold my own shadow and comb back its hair.

previously publish in FOX CRY (1998)