Poetry

 
Fall 2005 [Issue No. 8]

Anger.  Hunger.

Robert Danberg


 

This morning at my desk an hour before work
I meant to write anger but I wrote hunger instead.
I crossed it out and made the same mistake again.
An hour later, we left like a troupe of jugglers one man short.
Rubin, bags, keys-
The spun plate slips,
an old hurt shoulders through.
How can I say I'm sorry to you?

In college, when I came home from school,
I'd lose the new house key, then lose another.
"Let me in, let me in," again and again,
Knocking on the door at 3 AM.
One time, my father answered.
The door snapped open on the chain.
It closed and I heard it slip.
I followed him in without looking.
Locked it behind me.
When I turned I saw he was naked.
He stood at the end of the long hall.
He had his hand on his bedroom door.
I had a dream he said.
Someone on my chest.
I couldn't breathe.
I said nothing.  He said nothing more.

Tonight, Rubin wanted to stir.
I gave him the long spoon and held him from the heat.
He pushed chicken around the pot.
Soon it went too far and I had to relieve him of his spoon.
"Cook cook," he demanded, "more cook."
"Now we wait," I said.
"Sometimes cooking is waiting."



 

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