UHF ODE

by John Repp

 

 

All we can expect from children is the memory the monk has of the time he was attached.
—Adam Gopnik

Saturdays are not what they used to be
                         during my personal
            Neolithic, Sky King
& Penny dipping their wings toward

the desert floor, oiled Steve Reeves
                         in the gladiator pit
           thrilling my brother,
Ramar of the Jungle permanently

be-hatted though he swung & swam
                        Darkest Africa pursued
            without let-up by greed
& stupidity. Friend Flicka, gleaming Fury,

oh what heights we hit. Hey, Rocky!
                         Watch me pull a rabbit
            out of my hat! Again
& again I miss it—not nostalgia, no,

the aroma of corn flakes & Ebner’s milk,
                        the patter of rain
            on the rotting sill,
the certainty of Welk & cinnamon

toast or pizza for supper & thus this
                        poem pondering
            itself, these words not
what remains but all that can be done.

Out the window right now, someone trims
                        grass at the base
            of a brick wall, a job
I once did with what I’ve lately realized

was love. Eight months a year, sweaty
                       peace at the sight
             of smooth, raked grass.
Years before, my father bolted to the roof

an antenna he rotated with a toggle screwed
                       to a switch plate
             mounted by the maroon
armchair called “Dad’s Chair” though Dad

rarely sat there. Three new stations in Philly
                       & we had them—
             day-long gladiators
& Spanish cowpokes, roller derby live

from the Palestra, Speed Racer’s half-dozen cels,
                       an orgy of Eagles
             & Flyers & every
last parade. An age later, Saturdays high-step

double-time, the onlyGigantorthe one fattened
                       on breast milk & mashed
             peas who thirty post-nuclear
seconds later crafts on the kitchen floor

a tale of aliens & warrior cats. My father
                       should never climb
             a ladder again, let alone
the gray-wood thing his father climbed

to paint eaves & soffit, but does anyway,
                       folding afterwards
             into the weed-plucking,
finch-loving geezer he can’t possibly have become.

Praise the poem gone sentimental! Hike the hills
                       of fatherhood cliches,
             fetching up where I stand
foursquare between the granite stiles marking

our home & intone to whomever comes to drag
                       my son to that year’s
            glory Over my dead body
though I crunch that day & all days the grit

of every back-lot Normandy I’ve ever died on,
                       munching in the immortal
            dusk stale bread, nuts
& sardines bones & all, as my father taught.

Or I swallow everything as my warrior says I have to, Papa.

 

 

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