My Father, In Paris
By: Stephen E. Phillips
Tags: Poetry, Writing, Life, Love, Poetry On Medium

Photo by Jorik Kleen on Unsplash

My father

In Paris

Swinging suitcases to the curb

Washing his hands of airline travel

Disbelieving

Achieving

Gazing east on the Rue Duvivier

Placing handkerchief inside his pocket

Ascending

Pulling back the curtains

Examining footprints

Arranging chairs with tired hands

His voice authoritative like a ferry

Spreading maps like playing cards

Dividing cities into quadrants

My mother examining porcelain on the dresser drawer

Considering

My father, unpacking on the bed

Reconsidering

Arranging shoes in hills among the bedroom

Eyeing her upon the billowed sheets

Resting

Her crossword pen rolled outward on the mattress

Her arms spread open as golden, eagle wings

Awaking

Reaching for a glass of water

Showing the route of St. Germaine

His music calling

Her face flat against the wilted pillows

Pointing toward the kitchen stove

The winding clock against the painted wall

Her dark hair blackened by evening clouds

Moving gently

Opening softly

The stove igniting

Turning away

The window singing organ songs outside the balcony at dusk

Listening

My father, awaking

Yawning

Stretching to the furthest star

Rising in the semi-darkness

Pirouetting at first light in sneakers on linoleum

Exiting

A bull through barnyard fence

Greeting neighbors on the spiral staircase

His eyes focused in solidarity

The old woman smiling in simple charity

Her baguette inside the canvas

Shoulder bag the color of shoes

He greets her

In her language

Departing

Entering the square

Buying apples with one hand

A French newspaper in the other

Exploring

Calling into question the price of baked goods

Reaching for change between his handkerchief

A gentleman drinking coffee, enjoying

A different kind of transformation

The table rocks

Apologizing

The man waving him on in forgiveness

Understanding

Crossing the square to the sidewalk

Dodging sunlight

Heaving

Perspiring

Welcoming back the splintered shade

Cinching his pack about his shoulders

Preparing the final ascent of August

The endless journey of one summer to another

Recognizing the woman from the stairs

Her hair undone as men pass by on bicycles

My father, confused

Motioning

Blue eyes searching

Offering

In his own language

Fingers taking shape of latch keys

A piece of bread still sweet and glistening

Her eyes dancing

Romancing

Bright and raised

Paving the way for an ancient smile

Her sun-soaked cheeks

Waving him off to tie a shoelace

Shooing him away

Her friends arriving with idle engine

Decoded

She hops inside the Volkswagon

Betraying

With motorization

The ageless, perfunctory nature of France

My mother

Watching from the third story

Wrapped in a bed sheet, smiling

Her lips against a coffee cup

Staining

Washing away river upon river upon river within the Seine

My father

In Paris

Taking the elevator for the stairs

His arm pulling open the medieval door

The inner door transforming

Bursting into dozens of diamond sunbursts

Locking

Telling himself

It’s torture, this device, if not for opening

My mother, turning

Hoping

Opening the door without withholding

Laughing with outstretched fingers

Enveloping

At the doorway

All the fibers of her robe

Beginning to ascend

Setting down the empty cup

Forgetting and remembering