SAINT JULIAN PRESS POET

SKIP RENKER

IN THE FEEL

 

My father’s long fingers, free

Of arthritis even in old age,

Tapered to immaculate nails,

A manicure his bi-weekly

Indulgence.  He’d flirt

Gravely while young hands

Lifted and buffed.  His

Had a life of their own

With racquets and golf clubs--

“It’s all in the feel,” he’d say

After an ace or the sinking

Of a twenty-foot putt.  Flirting

Was the first of myriad moves

That led to this hour on a porch

In Michigan, the hand I observe

By moonlight, father’s and mother’s,

Mine and not mine.  It seems,

When I’m a little drunk,

Like a brainy cousin, friendly

But remote.  A palmist read

The long lifeline years ago--

Flesh, blood, bones, knit in

A mystery I wanted revealed,

But I’ve forgotten everything

She said.  So much of us disappears,

Ice floes in a spring river,

But here I am for the moment,

Reaching for the photograph

Of my sons playing catch

Next to the redbud, its tangle

Of branches, new leaves

Sprouting from the tips