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My Father's Wallpaper

John Grey

He is never a lost cause.
My thoughts can drag him
back from the dead
and though my hands can't heal,
my memory can.
I need this chair
and the wall-paper helps,
those flush English ladies
with red umbrellas
and flaired dresses
who have been strolling nowhere
for forty years,
their time well spent
as mine is now,
remembering their
cool, expressionless faces
with his eyes.
We share these ribs
of rocking wood,
even the cricket noises
for with insects
the sameness of their sound
is constantly renewed,
and maybe the smells
of old blankets and furniture,
the touch of curtains
that have sponged up the window light,
bold and purple,
for as long as love
has laughed the anger from these walls.
But the ladies know it best,
they taught color and form
to my quizzing eyes,
they gave him grace and beauty
to lean on,
they carry us back and forth,
across the years,
without cracking open
their faces,
without raising their hands.



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