The End of the Line On a good day Dad talked little Whether mom complained or not The day he took me out of school To go with him to work His chin was in the air And he moved his lips a lot But wasn’t saying anything That I could hear He squeezed my hand Especially when we crossed the street, And held it tight until we made it To the very first subway car He let me walk up to the window at the front Alone, and peer ahead into the dark Like the conductor As we sped and swayed and screeched And stopped and sped again To leave the tunnel And emerge from underground To lurch into the final stop The sudden sunlight hurt my eyes And dad had grabbed my hand again As if I’d trip and stumble through the space Between the platform and the track Without his help Which was ridiculous, I thought Before I felt enough To feel offended we were at The factory and dad had given me a kiss And plopped me down inside the office With a pretty secretary who chewed gum And told me everything would be all right And offered me a piece When dad came back A big guy with a beard was at his side Who looked like he would growl At me before he shook my hand I didn’t mind that his was greasy But I saw the phoney smile That was plastered overtop the frown And bit my lip when he began To muss my hair It was a while Again before we left, The boss and dad Just standing talking baseball While the secretary winked at me As far as I could tell My father wasn’t any angrier than other dads Although he had a temper That was triggered by a hair, The only problem being You never knew whose hair it was Or where it came from, Not to mention when Lots of little things You’d hardly notice Riled him up – Like people giving dirty looks Or worse, ignoring him – But dad was whistling on the ride back home Mom hugged me at the door As we arrived and then The phone rang only once Before my father answered it It must have been good news Because that night I had as much dessert as I could want And nearly more than I could eat At bedtime mom and dad had pinched my cheeks So often I began to think I’d done something important Besides staying on my feet Until we reached what both my parents Figured might have been The end of the line ________________________________________________________________________ Emanuel E. García, The Virtues of Calamity, One Hundred Poems, 2013 |