Papa On The Home Front Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Papa wears worn tweed suits
and shaves himself every morning with a Schick electric razor
and listens to Fred Allen on the radio by himself or with Mama
and is a strict air-raid warden

He effortlessly mows the lawn on Saturday
and then argues with the scraggle weeds that hug the walls
of our beautiful pale green Victorian house—
weeds that never feel a bit of shame

He sits mornings with the paper
and talks professorially with my striped cat
who doesn't care about The War or politics.
But she does care about bits of breakfast
offered from Papa's morning plate

He goes to the basement at odd moments
to check on the ancient Hotcoil water heater
or to kick the furnace in silence
or to think about getting everyone to move down there
where they'll stay safe if the The War comes too close
if the world threatens to truly end
if he can't take worrying one more night
restless atop his white cotton sheets
alongside his sturdy wife

Papa yells at the neighborhood kids if they are lazy
tells them to study or play or help their mothers
thinking to himself that they, too, may soon be gone

He pats my blonde, braided head with love
when the Andrews Sisters sing between slugs of news about Our Boys

He sits with our brown, slobbery bulldog on his lap
on the porch steps sometimes after Mama's fed them dinner
his gentle hands on Tibb's shoulders while he remembers another war.
The dog is content with him, for him
mouth-breathing into the orange of the setting sun
until Papa decides at last
that all will eventually be right with the world
perhaps for my generation
or another generation
some day