The Change

I stopped being able to write decent poetry a long time ago. Something happened, I guess. Perhaps I did not feed the Muse, did not make it known that I was available. Some people lose other things in the same way: love, opportunities, careers. I've lost some of those too. But the ability to write decent poetry hurts the most.

But, that's the time of day and the glass of wine talking. The poem here is almost decent, I think--simple in language and theme, a bit too similar of things I've written before. But it's nice to have written something, isn't it? Anyway, this one floated around my brain for several weeks before, once again, a writer-friend gave me the little push I needed to put it down somewhere. "Change" works on a couple of levels here, and it's the idea that I started with. In fact, the last line is how the whole poem began. The idea of having a sister in the poem appeared early on, too, as did Coltrane.
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The Change

During our summer walks my sister and I learned

to whisper the names of landmarks so that when

the day came we could find our own way home.

Our father, always several paces ahead of us, knew

each alleyway, knew who was on the other side of

each closed apartment  door and each opened window.

We learned the names, too: Johnson, Kominski, at least

three Smiths. During one summer’s evening humidity

the old man stopped, so we stopped. He tilted his head

upwind toward something new. “He’s trying to play Coltrane,”

our father said. “Listen.” So we listened: not the Top 40 we

spun in the basement after school while the humidifier worked,

but to indefinable rhythms we could not yet catch. “He needs

a new reed,” our father said. “But he’s getting it. Hear that? 

Hear how he held that note for almost long enough?”

My sister and I shifted our stance, ready to move on as he

tapped  his foot just enough so that a passerby might notice.  

The sun was nearly gone, and its light revealed the hidden

grayness deep in our father’s hair. He looked down at us,  

gauged that light against our bedtime. “Another minute,”  

he said. “A few more  measures. Just give me those and we’ll

all go home.” He turned his good ear back toward  the window

and the failing reed. “Get ready,” he said. “Listen for the change.”