eats fruitcake. My father eats Seville marmalade
with a teaspoon. As he eats, I see how neat his
hair is above his ears. It is a silvery grey like polished
pewter. I know he used nail scissors to cut it. His ears
are like his mother’s, I think - they will continue to grow
until they are noticeable. She had large ears by the time
she died, but seemed unconcerned. Her skin,
she would say, was soft French skin - touch it! - the more
the better! I remember them both helpless with laughter
at a kafenion in Pireaus - Stasou! - Stasou!
It hurt to laugh so much. When my father laughs he stamps his feet.
Cherries and pistachios.
I give him some to take home. I have nothing else to give him. But
I want to, I desperately want to find something more. I want to load
him with things that are rich and red and salty and sweet. He puts on
his leather coat and wades backwards into the dark.
And here is a first ever review of a poem of mine. I am still grinning ...
and for more Tuesday Poems click on the quill in the sidebar.
Note: title change at 8.33 pm Tuesday Nov 2.