My father cuts out newspaper articles
of interest
from politics to jazz poetry
and gives them to me.
They pass from his olive-skinned hands
to mine pale.
They end up crumpled in my car,
under my bed,
on the coffee table underneath the stone coasters.
Although he only sees me roll my eyes,
I take each one and,
with the patience of a skilled craftsman, I read.
Press Send Poetry 