All Calls Returned                                               Robert Walicki

 

 

After my father was gone,

she placed an ad for his car:

 

Smooth ride, low miles, all calls returned.

 

Summer nights, before it was gone,

I watched sunsets reflected in its hood.

Pouring over it like a mirror,

the polished gold of the flecked metallic—

the color of a sun, late autumn.

I used to love going in it at night,

alone, slowly,

as if approaching some secret place.

I remember the sharp remnant,

smell of his cologne,

and the leather,

regal stitch work,

chrome panel full of locks.

 

My back, whispering to my body,

the carpeted floor,

the bristling silence,

and through a curved sky,

window glass,

observatory full of stars—

it was as if I was at a doorway,

broad hull of steel,

driver seat view of my manhood opening.

 

And that night I dreamt

the road was ahead of me,

dark and open.

Gliding over the broken backs of the hills,

in this ride so smooth

the wheels

never touching

the earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Pond

 

 

At ten you give your palm up to the screen door

slamming it into sunshine,

unquestioning trees

running, your friends passing you

into deep cover

disappearing into

the green folds of the pines

 

and in the house you just passed

your mother is putting away clothes

and shutting doors to keep the heat in

 

 no one notices you are gone

and you are stopped at the crest of a hill

a few wavering strands of grass

 

the tops of them, where they’ve turned to hay

feathered out into golden streaks

the ends like the wing points of arrows

 

and somewhere your mother folds

your white shirt smoothing over

the wrinkles with her hand

touching it for a minute

 

and somewhere the pond that is

two miles from your house

is grey and nothing will be thrown in

not the stone you held just a week before

after your father lost his job

and you wanted to see

if you skipped it across

how far it would go before it started sinking

 

 

 

 

 

Robert Walicki, a freelance poet, has been inspired by his inner muse through various forms of writing and poetry over the years. Most recently, he has had his poetry published in The Quotable, Right Hand Pointing, The Pittsburgh Post Gazette and others.