Poem Spam.

[aquabean]

Photograph/1936
by David Bengtson

They face each other, my father in a white jacket,
rented for the day, my grandfather
in a dark suit, tie too short, a light felt
dress hat with a dark band, the shadow
of the brim covering his eyes.

Graduation is over. They've just
come home from the high school. There'll be
a little party. Before everyone goes inside,
someone, one of your brothers, says, "Wait,
we need a photo of Gilbert and Pa.
How about over there by the tree? Gilbert,
stand in front of the bench. Pa, you stand,
next to him. Okay, look at each other. That's good.
Gilbert, don't hide your diploma." So
you hold the roll of paper a bit higher.

Dad, that bench is so close, right behind you,
if you backed up at all, you'd have to
sit down. Go ahead. Sit with your dad.
There's enough room for the two of you,
and smile. He'll reach his arm around you and
tell you how proud he is.

Now, the tall pine is gone, slashed in a storm.
The large yard, now covered by the house built
by one of your brothers, then shared
with his son and his son's wife
until last year when your brother
came home one night to find them
inside, refusing to open the doors.
There he stood, on his own front steps, 89,
locked out, forever.

I would like to stand in the space
between you and your dad, and say,
"Let's sit together on this bench. Let's talk
about the things that frighten us,"
and we'd talk about boilers that explode,
long trips on rough seas to small islands,
why a son, given everything,
would turn on his father, his family,
the love of family.