Cold hands on the cold wheel of his car,
Driving from Bridgeport, he watches
The long line of red taillights
Curving before him, remembers
How his father used to say they were cats’ eyes
Staring back at them, a long line of cats
Watching from the distance – never Fords,
Buicks, Chevrolets, filled with the heads
Of children, lovers, lonely businessmen,
But cats in the darkness. Half asleep,
He can believe, or make himself believe
The truth of his father – all the lies
Not really lies: images which make
The world come closer, cats’ eyes up ahead.
(Poetry Diary 264 – 6/18/17) A poem by my father about his father.