By Daryl Jones
Featured art by Jozef Israëls
He’s in one of his funks again,
my stepmother’s warned me,
hair shaggy and mussed, baggy clothes afloat
on his skinny frame.
My father makes hardly a dent
in the overstuffed sofa he’s sitting on.
No, he’s not hungry.
No, nothing in the paper interests him.
No, there’s nothing I can do
but stare blankly into the distance where he’s staring
as I did sixty years ago when we hunched
shivering and silent on five-gallon buckets
flipped upside down on the ice of Cedar Lake,
waiting for a tiny red plastic flag
to snap to attention.
Now and then, we would stand up stiffly,
huffing and hugging ourselves, stamping our feet,
then skim the slurry from the augured holes
and sit down again, nothing to do but wait,
testing our wills against the deadening cold
and the wily old lunker pike we pictured
in the black, still depths below, impervious
to the booted thunder rumbling overhead,
hunkered down, hovering in its singular darkness,
grim, stubborn, defiant.
Daryl Jones is a former Idaho Writer-in-Residence and recipient of an NEA Creative Writing Fellowship. His book Someone Going Home Late won the Natalie Ornish Poetry Award from the Texas Institute of Letters. Recently, his poems have appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Gettysburg Review, Poet Lore, The Southern Review, and elsewhere.