by Thomas Davis
On Friday nights I’d work all day, then walk
home from the office where two teenaged girls
were streaming past their mother with their talk
about this boy, this girl, their endless whirl
of friend, near-friend relationships that bloomed
and changed like clothing changed from day to day.
The minute that I touched the door excitement spumed
as I gulped down a meal before Green Bay—
and then we drove for forty country miles
to where two girls could dance and laugh to songs
and show that small town girls had mastered styles
that big town girls would envy all night long.
I sat inside a dinghy Burger King
and read while daughters spread their teen club wings.
1Green Bay, Wisconsin
An eagle hovered in the air above
our heads, wings trembling as it looked at us.
He’d been depressed for days, rejecting love
we’d tried to say, to show, to mean, discuss,
but driving Lake Superior’s rocky shore
he’d stared at forests we were driving past
and mumbled when he spoke, the sore
he felt so deep it kept him mute, downcast.
But when the eagle hovered in the air,
then dipped its wings and soared into the sky,
he smiled, his inward-looking eyes aware
of being, for a moment, in an eagle’s eyes.
From then on, though he struggled with black nights,
he found an eagle’s eyes and launched in flight.