A small clay head three inches round
long nose, puffy eyes, heavy black brows,
instead of a mouth, a brown mustache.

He sits on my desk, has for years,
since Lisa made him for me.
Waiting to weight my papers
he reminds me of Grandpa,
hers, not mine.

To her my father was a funny man
who came on Sundays with his second wife
bearing dinner from Fine's kosher deli--
chicken in the pot, knockwurst and beans.
What could be bad?

After dinner he played "throw the tie."
Facing the bookcase his bow tie would
fly through the air
and wind up behind the piano
to gales of laughter, mine included.
Here was the delicious Daddy of my youth.

The two little girls screeching with delight
raced to retrieve it, rewarded with tickles and hugs,
excitement mounting, his and theirs.
Was I the only one who noticed
his hands between their legs?

The little clay head now sits on my desk
as I used to sit happily on his lap
until the day I had to notice
and become the guardian
of his arousal.

 

Ruth Dombrow is a poet, a painter, a potter and a clinical psychologist. Her poetry has appeared in Moonsnap, The Fairfield Review, Voices, Psychopoetica and other journals. Her paintings and pottery can be seen at The Village Gallery in Katonah, NY and the  Flatiron Gallery in Peekskill, NY. 

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