Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue One

Frederick Lord

Cupping My Car Keys like a Bird I Want to Keep Quiet

While the day's coming attractions play on the shade,
I ease out of bed, capture my keys in both hands from the bureau,
slip out the front door, and ouch barefoot to my car.

I drive up into the neglected teeth of familiar hills,
where the old man began each day, sitting on his heels, smoking and staring off
into smoke-faced mountains whence no help ever came.

What did my father want from his only life besides more of it?
Why was he content to frame other people's ambitions?
Why did he hide who he was inside the stories of what he did?

If I walked up to him right now and asked, he'd only point out
that the dead answer to no one. And what are you doing outside
still in your pajamas? Have some sense, boy. Have some sense.