His Father Died

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.