Portrait With Still Life

Portrait With Still Life


I find no reason to distract my father
who is yelling at the empty prescription
bottle. After he returned from the war,
which he didn't find to his liking, he
operated a drill press without distinction
for nearly fifty years. He raised a
family that was barely passable.
He strode forth only when the weather fit
his shoes. He stood in the backyard
and painted all the landscapes that
passed through his head,
"like tulip petals on their way
to a farter version of heaven."
He learned to read when he was
a very young child, but found this
was an impediment later in his life.
He was not my father, but a kitchen
appliance in need of repairs.


John Yau

Posted over on American Poetry Review