by Lynn Emanuel

    If I could see nothing but the smoke

    From the tip of his cigar， I would know everything

    About the years before the war.

    If his face were halved by shadow I would know

    This was a street where an EATS sign trembled

    And a Greek served coffee black as a dog's eye.

    If I could see nothing but his wrist I would know

    About the slot machine and I could reconstruct

    The weak chin and ruin of his youth， the summer

    My father was a gypsy with oiled hair sleeping

    In a Murphy bed and practicing clairvoyance.

    I could fill his vast Packard with showgirls

    And keep him forever among the difficult buttons

    Of the bodice， among the rustling of their names，

    Miss Christina， Miss Lorraine.

    I could put his money in my pocket

    and wearing memory's black fedora

    With the condoms hidden in the hatband