The Last Glance

In the front yard of the little house in Bend, Oregon

Peaking through the slats of the faded picket fence

I watched my father, head hanging, slowly

Open the car door and stick his right leg in.

He turned for one last glance, then slid into

The driver’s seat and closed the door.

I was four years old that June of 1957 when

Time stopped like an wound-down mantle clock.

I stood alone in the shade of a giant poplar tree,

My eyes could not focus, my legs too weak to move,

My hands too heavy to wave goodbye.

Maybe he spoke, but my ears could not hear.

I was a separate piece now. I was unhooked,

Released like a dead leaf falling

To the ground on a calm day,

No wind, no breeze to carry me along.

Today, I live in a surrogate body, a vague memory

Of a car driving away in slow motion,

Dull red taillights retreating, gravel crunching

Under tires, me walking away from the fence.

Naida Lavon

July 2012 Poems and Prompts

Prompt: From the book called The Practice of Poetry, I read the poem called In The Waiting Room by Elizabeth Bishop, then the instructions were to write a poem imitating it.