"There Exists a Dead Father in All of Us" by Chris Peck
He’s in a box on the desk in the office,
surrounded by some of his possessions.
A flask, a wristwatch, a few empty
canisters of film with those little
grey tops; the color of cremains,
fragments of bone.
He is a counterweight,
the consideration of our own waster potential,
a daily reminder.
As we stumble around
the sidewalks of this West Village,
we’re encased in the silent judgment of someone foreign.
It’s like weaving in and out of some expensive fabric,
their lives just look so attractive.
Bellini brunches, The New York Times.
In these attempts at reinvention,
in struggling with abandon,
the gravity of our grief,
we sift through remnants of what’s left,
like the silt from the towers that still exists
somewhere in the cracks and crevices downtown.
But we never really find anything,
though occasionally we catch a glimpse.
We see it working at a local coffeeshop.
We see so many of those
classy old-man alcoholics;
all tweed jackets and suede elbow
patches. Their leather faces.
But with each clever remark,
and in all the charm of their conversation,
we are reminded of the lives
these men will inevitably leave behind.
The hours that turn into days,
the genius that atrophies,
and so many,
so many sons and daughters
whose very bodies
are caught somewhere drifting.
surrounded by some of his possessions.
A flask, a wristwatch, a few empty
canisters of film with those little
grey tops; the color of cremains,
fragments of bone.
He is a counterweight,
the consideration of our own waster potential,
a daily reminder.
As we stumble around
the sidewalks of this West Village,
we’re encased in the silent judgment of someone foreign.
It’s like weaving in and out of some expensive fabric,
their lives just look so attractive.
Bellini brunches, The New York Times.
In these attempts at reinvention,
in struggling with abandon,
the gravity of our grief,
we sift through remnants of what’s left,
like the silt from the towers that still exists
somewhere in the cracks and crevices downtown.
But we never really find anything,
though occasionally we catch a glimpse.
We see it working at a local coffeeshop.
We see so many of those
classy old-man alcoholics;
all tweed jackets and suede elbow
patches. Their leather faces.
But with each clever remark,
and in all the charm of their conversation,
we are reminded of the lives
these men will inevitably leave behind.
The hours that turn into days,
the genius that atrophies,
and so many,
so many sons and daughters
whose very bodies
are caught somewhere drifting.