Chip

In some ways I succeeded
at being a father: he is always neatly
turned out.  If this is rebellion
against my shaggy bohemian license,
it is a pleasant one.  We discuss,
not contend for, power,
and his easy sobriety
contrasts nicely
to my lifelong latent
hysterics.  He is currently studying
the vagaries of Caspian Sea
pipelines.  Azerbaijan through Georgia
to Ceyhan in Turkey,
very much as opposed to
the Caucasus.  We must re-
ingratiate ourselves with,
regain our bases in
Kyrgyzstan, for when Kazakh supplies
come on line.  Iraq
was a miscalculation, but
inevitable.  An SUV parks –
almost too appositely –
in too small a space
outside the café; to my
remark, he recites
without much interest
the usual: safety
in traffic, convenience,
machismo.  The day
brightens, he blinks at it;
I see my features
blink.  Any mention of war
is premature at this point,
he thinks.  We’ll be prepared,
or not.  I am reduced to
asking whether he’ll
visit after his internship,
before the job starts, and to inquiring
predictably about
his love-life.  He shifts
his athlete grandfather’s shoulders and
smiles, a healthy animal.








Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press.  Other poems have appeared in print and online journals.  He is an adjunct professor of creative writing at George Washington University.