Читать книгу Dancing at Lake Montebello - Lynne Viti - Страница 15

Labor Day

It was a day out, a day off.

They stocked the boat with bait and tackle,

Luckies and Camels, sandwiches and beer,

headed for where the bay meets the ocean.

There were plenty of stripers in those days,

bonitas, perch when your luck ran out,

more blues than you could catch and clean,

supper and then some, all glistening prizes.

To say something went wrong that day

is to turn away from the sun on their faces,

the sun on gray water,

beer cans they drained, tossed overboard.

To say something went wrong

is to ignore the yells when one of them

startled out of half-sleep.

The boat stopped drifting, dashed against the bridge.

I can’t say if there was silence or moans

as they made way to shore,

to City Hospital’s green corridors,

to black telephones to call home.

My father dragged that leg around for years—

that natural prosthesis, ankle fused to foot.

He was early to bed then.

His arsenal of pills filled the bathroom shelf.

One day he taught me to hit a softball

directed my stance, placed my hands on the bat,

Warned me never to daydream at the plate.