Читать книгу No Gathering In of this Incense - Mark Rhoads - Страница 7

My father sits on the edge of his bed in a t-shirt

angling a blue-veined foot into a leg of his pajamas.

His loins are exposed, the loins

from which the seed of me burst out

on a pleasant April night in Canyon Crest,

and afterwards he swung these feet

to the floor to sit for a moment, palms

on the mattress, his toes kneading

the cool linoleum, then looked back at my mother

to exchange a commemorative smile.

But now these pajamas claim his full attention,

one leg, then the other leg, a forced rest;

and once over his knees he labors to stand

to pull them up over his wilted buttocks;

he falls to the bed, lays his head in dry fingers,

looks down at the floor for a long, long time

as if to ponder the history of the old brown carpet.