Saturday Morning

So much is unexplained.  There was

the death you knew about, could smell

months in advance, the sun riding

on water the day he died—his mouth

not firm, one eye sagging, hidden

almost in the imperfect shadow.

Did you take pride in your composure

unfaltering in the June heat?  A father

you'd hardly spoken to in years?

Now you've awakened at dawn to shudder,

remembering.  Where was the fault

that shriveled all those days to ash?

A week ago you walked in the morning

down to the newsstand on the corner.

She was riding a bicycle, lean

and sober, eye on the wandering cars,

threading traffic in light rain.

And seeing her face you half remembered

the time when all you were concerned with

was just as simple as a ride

through heavy traffic in light rain,

Saturday morning on a bicycle

in a town that looked something like this.

Jan Schreiber

From Wily Apparitions, Cummington Press,
© 1992.  Reprinted by permission of the author.