2 Suits

my father had 2 suits
He rotated them
All through
The 30’s depression
and world war II,
when I was old enough to know how
my mother assigned me
to the job
of taking the suits
to the dry cleaner,
and she would say
“ now remember to say “pressed only,”
or she would say
“tell them clean and press:
depending on how long he had worn it,
& I would memorize the instructions
all the way
saying the words over & over.
i hardly ever saw my father,
he worked at work,
then he drank in the tavern,
i got to know him through the suits,
he died
& they cremated him in one of them,
i’d like the other one to find him
& they both walk through my door.
2 suits pressed.

Where The Chair is

that chair, that rocker
where the phone is,
where I was talking to my dying sister,
where I was talking to my dying daughter,
where I was having dying conversations,
the conversations are still there,
words in little bundles,
in & around & near chair,
twine-bound,
loose jute,
long drawn out of gab,
that never left the room.
Sometimes I can’t go near chair,
On time
I hurried to the phone,
I tripped on the chair & fell over it
& broke my ribs.
I learned how to go slow,
how to watch for the chair,
are larger than life,
some can rock the rocker,
i still trip on those.
Poems from Martha Boss Collection : Twine

Illustration by Jamila Ouriour