Summer 1988 • Vol. X No. 3 Poetry |

No Parking

When I watched his daughter Turn from her father, Taking his tight smile With her as she went, I heard, among the slams Of car doors, something low And feral: Loss is the animal That never sleeps, The predator that stalks Families and clans, Curling in empty beds And vacant dens. Habitué of funerals, It never mourns And is, of fatal accidents And all things terminal, The sole survivor. Or, as here, the shadow Huddling beneath the glare Of polished fenders, Breathing the gray exhaust Of idling engines, The heat of wheels in motion.

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When I watched his daughter Turn from her father, Taking his tight smile With her as she went, I heard, among the slams Of car doors, something low And feral: […]

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When I watched his daughter Turn from her father, Taking his tight smile With her as she went, I heard, among the slams Of car doors, something low And feral: […]

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