And Felix never knew, though his sister
sat there with her smile in her lap and cried,
her hand on the phone, his hand two thousand
miles away still fussing with the dial
of his father’s ancient Philco, which sat now
next to the microwave for endless hours of
kitchen Sinatra, since the radio caught
nothing but lost frequencies drifting by
like ghosts who’ve forgotten their names
and wonder why they’re dancing in circles
around this stranger’s kitchen. And sure
enough, his father arrived like a letter, like smoke
though the little swinging door in the door.
His son never knew. He left for the store,
left his father dancing an inch above the floor.