In sunshine old animals—
peaceful, wrinkled, gnarled grey
whiskers—wait for the blood’s slow
molten flow to enter the tropics
of their undying dreams.
Like an old dog twitching in his sleep,
rhythmic and repeated, pursuing his first
rabbit through brambles, the man waits
in the car beside me. His brows
bushy, his nose thick with years,
as he buttons and unbuttons his sweater.
He might be my own man grown old.
He might be my dad, patient, waiting on
his wife visiting the craft store,
Harmony Acres, for some small notion.
I divine the warmth and muscle
of his relaxation, as he lets the white hairs
on his wrist stand backlit, heliotropic.
Lets his thick fist, heavy fingers hang
out the open car window.
Lets the spring sun warm him.
3/27/1987
-
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Singing Frog Press 
wonderful imagery, beautiful words
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amazing masterwork! The opening stanza grabbed me immediately. —wait for the blood’s slow molten flow to enter the tropics of their undying dreams.
Thank you.
On Mon, Feb 28, 2022 at 8:31 AM Singing Frog Press wrote:
> SingingFrogPress posted: ” In sunshine old animals—peaceful, wrinkled, > gnarled greywhiskers—wait for the blood’s slowmolten flow to enter the > tropicsof their undying dreams.Like an old dog twitching in his > sleep,rhythmic and repeated, pursuing his firstrabbit through brambles,” >
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Oh I forgot it was in there, though this is a tweaked version. I should acknowledge that. Thanks for noticing.
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A lovely old poem from The Unmade Bed collection!
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