By Chase Twichell b. 1950 Chase Twichell
On the first warm day,
the aides fret about his pate,
fetch his hat. I push him
out the automatic doors
into the pallid sun.
Dad thinks we should
stay put until all the Indians
are back in their tepees,
but right now he’s off to teach
a Latin class. Where are his keys?
They’re a few miles away,
in the past, where he’s no longer
active in the community.
I steer him along the asphalt paths
of the grounds: bark mulch,
first green shoots,
puddle of coffee by a car.
I loop around so he can discover
the pile of construction materials twice,
the word cinderblock coming to him
more quickly the second time.

Chase Twichell, "Cinderblock" from Dog Language (Copper Canyon Press, 2005).

Source: Dog Language (Copper Canyon Press, 2005)


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Poet Chase Twichell b. 1950

POET’S REGION U.S., New England

Subjects Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Time & Brevity

Poetic Terms Free Verse