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My Houdini Heart

                   always picks
the wrong time to escape:
locked up tight, walled securely
when I feel the need to feel;
leaping out with waving arms
when the arrows fly --

As if it wants to break,
knowing I'm the one who'll ache.
 

Someone Else's Father

Someone else's father died last week,

someone with my name -- listed there
among survivors in the obit.

                   You learn,
at times like that, just how many people
read the blessed things. Some of those
at work assume -- coming up to tell me
how sorry they are, inquiring after Mom;
someone touches my shoulder and offers me
a heartfelt wince of unspoken sympathy.

I get hesitating looks -- uncertain
how or if they should bring it up.
Another tries a roundabout approach:
"I read the paper the other day, and..."

I reassure one and all: I'm not
the only So-and-So in town, I'm fine,
it's someone else's father -- and wonder,
if Dad were still around, would he be laughing?

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