Chase Twichell

(1950 / Connecticut / United States)

Cinderblock - Poem by Chase Twichell

On the first warm day,
the aides fret about his pate,
fetch his hat. I push him
out the automatic doors
into the pallid sun.
Dad thinks we should
stay put until all the Indians
are back in their tepees,
but right now he's off to teach
a Latin class. Where are his keys?
They're a few miles away,
in the past, where he's no longer
active in the community.
I steer him along the asphalt paths
of the grounds: bark mulch,
first green shoots,
puddle of coffee by a car.
I loop around so he can discover
the pile of construction materials twice,
the word cinderblock coming to him
more quickly the second time.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, July 16, 2014

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