Poetry |

“A Framed Photograph”

A Framed Photograph

 

 

The day after my father died,

his boss, Charlie, came to our house

carrying a box.

 

Early evening,

my mother and I welcomed him

into the foyer.

 

The box contained a full carton

of Kent cigarettes. We didn’t know

he still smoked.

 

Oh, two packs a day,

Charlie said, as if the fact

didn’t matter now.

 

We didn’t smell it

on him. His car didn’t smell.

How could he hide it so well?

 

We found a framed photograph in the box

of a woman with blonde hair,

smiling.

 

We didn’t know

who she was; Charlie said

he didn’t know.

 

Then he said how sorry

he was

for our loss and left.

 

My mother and I stood

under a hanging light fixture

that felt too bright.

 

Three years before,

my father had started wearing

green and blue leisure suits

 

with a gold necklace

that held a shark’s tooth.

He moved out

 

for a few months,

spent Christmas in Fort Myers,

then begged to come back home.

 

The photo disappeared.

We didn’t want to remember what didn’t fit

but did.

Contributor
William Palmer

William Palmer’s poetry has appeared recently in JAMA, J Journal, One Art, On the Seawall, Poetry East, Sheila-Na-Gig, and The Westchester Review. A retired professor of English at Alma College, he lives in Traverse City, Michigan. 

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