Of pain, my ailing father.
Then in the morning,
Stands in the backyard,
On his crippled leg..
Waiting for the
Yellow-backed sparrows.
How he tells everyone
Who comes to meet him.
That the little ones
Visit him every September,
All the way from Russia.
He references his inference
To planetary motion and
An ancient number theory.
But who cares from where
Or how they come right?
As he stands there
Grappling with whatever
Life he is left with.
Forgetting pain with
A bag full of feed for
The migratory birds.
Maybe they talk to
Him in Russian.
Narrating the stories
Of Chekhov, Tolstoy
Or Orwell.
For all the time he
Has served in the army,
Driving Russian tanks.
Even if he thinks,
This daily respite as
A therapy sanctioned
By Vladimir Putin.
There's nothing wrong.
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