MY FATHER’S VOICE

She said,

“Someone is on the phone--

and he’s frightening!”

But--

it’s only my father’s voice.

That    warm, ferocious growl

that    gravely intonation,

honed in New York City barrooms--

the implied intimacy

of a    well-oiled P.R. man.

His voice’s

elusive descent

into    a

punch line...

rising

to the pitfalls...

to his declaration

of love

Which Man Will Know Me Now.

Which man will know me

 from my birth as a bald, bawling baby

to a    balding middle aged man?

Which man will I kiss now?

 My lips brushing his sandpaper,

 five o’clock shadow cheek?

Which man will tell me stories of the Bronx?

His gang of street urchins stealing

Mickies from carts

Impaling the spuds with sticks

and roasting them in

clandestine back alleys.

Which man will remember taking

a strap to me when I needed it?

Bluntly telling me: “You will be a drifter.”

if I    didn’t get my act together.

Slapping my back at graduation,

bear-hugging me at my wedding

Which man?

Will    I lose that primal image I have of him?

Rushing off the 6P.M. train from Penn. Station

a regular “Dashing Dan,”

greeting me through the side of his mouth

“How are ya’ kid?”

Who will make impossibly corny jokes

and impossibly dry Martinis

in front of a fire

on a    long winter

Sunday afternoon?

But my father has not left me.

I see him in the laugh

lines of my face,

the way I greet a pal,

down    a beer,

guffaw at a Marx Brothers movie,

crack an off-key joke.

And the way

I pick myself up

and give it

another try

time    and time again.

Yes,    he is dead.

and I will miss him.

And I will remember

and mark

his passage,

because there will never

be someone quite

like    him

who will cross

this    stage again