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A Poem with a History
My fifth poem, from 1984, revised.

Background
My father’s only brother, only sibling, died on Christmas Eve 1983, 75 days after entering CCU due to a severe heart attack.
Michael (my first partner) and I had tickets to fly from Baltimore to Pittsburgh on Christmas Day to visit his family in Charleroi PA. Dad asked us to accompany him that far on his drive to his hometown, Sharon PA.
Back then, you could cancel a flight the day before and get a full refund without questions.
My father clearly was under a lot of stress handling his own grieving and knowing he would need to be supportive of his mother. Also, he had been working under contract 90 minutes from home, commuting to the Harrisburg PA area every Sunday evening and returning to Lutherville MD Friday evening.
Dad was hospitalized the previous June for severe depression at the Sheppard & Enoch Pratt Hospital in Towson MD. It was the same place ten or eleven years before where he went to seek treatment for alcoholism.
The poem explores a visit with him when he was hospitalized. The setting is an accurate depiction of the grounds of the hospital. (See photo art below.)
I wrote the poem in February 1984. My father died of a heart attack in his motel room in PA the night of January 31/morning of February 1, five weeks after his brother.
He was found four days later when my mother called the motel because he still wasn’t home by Saturday evening.
In 2003, I wrote a screenplay based on the events of June 1983-June1984 in my life but with fictional characters. The main character is working on this poem in a voiceover during the opening scene, which shows what is described in the poem.
[N.B. The poem “Father’s Day” was published in The Invisible Bear, Jessica Q. Stark, ed., Summer 2017. All rights held by the author.]

Father’s Day
We were sitting in three Adirondack chairs under tulip trees. Dad was on my right. My brother was on my left. No, maybe I wasn’t in the middle then. I’ll get it right later.
There were black tree ants, the big ones, everywhere. We had them at the house too, when I was growing up. Our dog would follow them, nose to the ground. Just wondered where the ants were going, I guess. It’s funny.
Tulip poplars make everything seem so small. Mottled bark, so tall, the light orange and green flowers littering the ground beneath them. I’ve never seen a flower fall from a tulip tree. They are way up on the branches and then they’re there on the ground.
Only the ants are normal size under those trees. Dad was on my right. And in front of us, low clouds, clinging to the hills, came toward us. We watched. No, we weren’t watching, really.
We were sitting in three Adirondack chairs under tulip poplars. Dad was on my left. My brother was beside him on the other side. And there was a fourth chair that I forgot about.
The horizon, the hills, the view we weren’t watching disappeared as the storm approached. The rain cut suddenly through the towering trees. The ants moved quickly to the ground among the fallen flowers. We ran from the torrent we hadn’t seen coming.

