My father is laughing. His laughter is
to the scene. He’s telling this story as we
up Quinpool Road, gesturing excitedly with
his bald head, wagging his white beard, the
of his grandma breaking her ankle, how she
moaned all night, filling the
with her moans. A woman clutching a baby
walks past us. We both glance at her. All
is crucial. Beside her, a man falls to the
in front of us, thud. He’s hurt bad.
Groaning. We stand over him. Not touching
His bones, shattered. Did he leap off the
His breath rough, eyes restless as a bird’s.
And he looks exactly like my father.
Bald, beard. He shudders, stops breathing.
Late evening. A guitar being strummed
The strings call for love. An ambulance
Orderlies step out: perfect twins my father.
Onlookers gather, mirror images of my
even this “lady,” white poodle in her purse,
is bald & bearded. Only this cop
on a white horse looks different. He is a
I climb up & hold his ribs. We gallop
past McDonald’s & the bank. A pack of
keeps pace, barking in the last light. I
my eyes, imagining I’m three again, clinging
the tank of my father’s Triumph motorcycle:
he is dropping me off at daycare.