My Father Trapped in a Ziploc
His routine was seamless. The electric
alarm rattled at 6. Cornflakes
with powdered milk & instant
coffee at 6:15. He stepped
on the train from Lombard
to Chicago at 6:55. He held
his Samsonite briefcase in his left
hand, Tribune in his right.
He worked on the 44th
floor of the world’s tallest
building in an office the size
of an outhouse. There was no talk
of things uncontrolled
or concealed. Not the pain he
could not pinpoint. Ovaries.
Falopian tubes. Voiceless
yearning for a friend or two. After
mother left him, he arranged
his work clothes precisely
on the cedar chest at 8:30 pm. Kept
his socks, all dark gray,
in pairs held together with safety
pins. All purchases written
neatly in a black bound
notebook that fit into his shirt
pocket. When they filled
up he stored them in Ziplocs
and stacked them in the bottom
drawer of his deep
brown slant top desk.
18 thoughts on "My Father Trapped in a Ziploc"
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So exacting this portrait, as precise as the man. I wanted to meet him.
He’s dead!
What a powerful portrait .. and the way the line breaks move into the next gives it an amble of pacing …
Kevin
nice work.
the very fixed form makes
it very easy to read between
these lines.
makes me also think of the
laws of matter.
The enjambment and suspension into the next line carries the sadness. Love the cadence of last line! The finality.
I wonder if there is a word for that “enjambment and suspension” pause–because it also carries a kind of music.
this is fantastic. great detail and punch. the title expands the power of the poem.
Beautifully, carefully written portrait. The specificity of detail is so well-observed
the measured couplets enhance your tribute
Wow. You are on FIRE.
Powerful poem carried so beautifully with concrete images. That last line!
The poem’s couplets as controlled
as he was
That’s so funny Pat — and so very true.
ziplock, defining notebooks (his purchases) stored in the bottom drawer of desk: maybe he was on the spectrum
My son is on the spectrum. Sometimes I think we are all on the spectrum by manner of degrees.
I AGREE
I think my favorite part is how this poem feels like a rhythmic loop. By the end I imagined him at the start of a new day, taking a new notebook out of plastic just to fill it with the things that make up the days… Then put it back in a plastic bag
Tugged at my heart:
After
mother left him, he arranged
his work clothes precisely
on the cedar chest at 8:30 pm. Kept
his socks, all dark gray,
in pairs held together with safety
pins. All purchases written
neatly in a black bound
notebook that fit into his shirt
pocket. When they filled
up he stored them in Ziplocs