STILL, LIFE

Bent over, he staggers like a has-been Southern sheriff
or a crippled parsnip and toddles into Wal-Mart
"for just a couple things" on a gray Monday afternoon

past the dented cars and homeless shopping carts
left for dead on the outskirts of the mall.

The air is sticky, stagnant as wet flour, desolate

as bruised peaches leaking onto his hands.

He shuffles past tenements of papaya stacked

next to purple plums hard as stone.

This still life reflects back at the old man
making his way through onions and rhubarb
and chard and on toward the gallon of whole milk

and, later, four jars of Metamucil before unfolding

ancient paper sacks at the cash register.

Outside behind the steering wheel of my parked car
I wait for dad and write down these lines searching

for some story to tell of shared life, of our love really,

before the wordless drive home, before the slow

veer up the concrete stairs.