MY FATHER
IN A MOTEL
I had never seen
him without his teeth
but he is sitting
on the corner
of a bed in a motel
lips caved into his mouth
until they are almost gone
his skin looser
and more transparent
than last time
he came through
In the 1950s and 60s
he smoked Luckies
wore his cap tilted back
and just off center
Taught me about fishing,
car maintenance,
airplanes, his temper
and that life is always work
He loved to move then
always traveling
but age has caught
him in mid stride
and when he should have
a wife, home and comfort
they have left conjured away
by disease and the banks
So he still travels
sleep walking through cities
his body becoming inert
falling in on its self
Right now he is slouched
next to a pink lamp
on a white spread, laid over
a commercial grade mattress
and will not budge
Will only make indifferent
noises to every suggestion
with small lifts of his shoulders
as if his words have lost
their power and been pulled
into a final nothing
gone with everything else
that had been his
---
BAR MUSIC
something charming
on the piano
a rolling tune
to make you think
of a small circus
a slender woman
on the rope
agile, balanced
wraps her leg
like a snake
and hangs
in arched glory
at a dangerous height
then snaps and twists
and lowers herself
uncurling her body
onto the stool
next to yours
“bravo” you shout
and quickly check
your wallet
hoping you have enough
to buy her a drink
--
Rod Tipton is a poet and filmmaker from Seattle, Washington.
