The Bicycle Ride
In the country of confusion my father
passes by clumsily on a three-speed
unaware of the state he inhabits.
You might say he's confused, and mistakes
long silences for the luscious drone
of an angel's wing sweeping overhead.
You might say he cannot focus on
confusion, that he rides along the sunny
streets of disorientation as if he were
gliding over them, an insect following
the ancestral scent to the cave.
I wave and he nods a little, lowering
his chin. Think of me, I think aloud,
hoping he registers the ...