Compass Stilled

He would be my father’s generation,
Chalky snot, just inside
The zipper of his coat,
And a milky river that runs
A crevasse, cheek to chin.
I fumble for my hanky
And know he’s not dad
So that sticky river
Will have to stay.
The stubble on his face
Is an aerial map
Of the Tillamook Burn;
Growth, clearing, reforestation.
Outwardly he has a walker
Making his life a push
And invading space.
The stories are damned republicans
CIA and an old teacher’s memories.

He returns
More often then Jesus after Resurrection
At his stop on thirty-fifth.
He doesn’t ask me to touch
Or believe.“Just listen, goddamitt!”