POEMS
Linda Gregerson
FOR MY FATHER, WHO WOULD RATHER STAY HOME
No deadfall in these woods of yours.
No
hollowed-out trunks.
No needy,
unseemly
hanging on, as puts
a man with a chainsaw
to shame.
The row of rusting oildrums and the
spavined Ford are nearly
obscured
by sumac and scrub,
whose thin-legged plans for the future
outrun
all reasonable grounds for hope .
It's ground you never meant
to give.
If
bracken
wants to euphemize an un–
regenerate
combine and a heap
of salvaged pipe,
it works
its homely camouflage unbidden
and unblessed.
The Ford
might lend you parts someday, and woe
