Asbury Park, August 3, 1962

 

I am 13 and smiling

in this photo with my father

on his 53rd birthday.

He stands with his arm

around me and I feel

his biceps solid from years

of lifting freight on and off

his truck. My father’s grinning,

his eyes bright with life

and behind us the boardwalk

teems with Saturday people.

All around us are summer

and the unstoppable pulse

of Asbury Park in ’62.

 

My father looks like a monument

of muscle, broad shouldered,

barrel chested, not a speck

of gray in his thick black hair,

an icon of strength and health.

No arcade fortune teller

could ever convince me

he has just four months to live;

that today is the last day

on this boardwalk

he and I will smile together.

 

Fifty summers later, I touch

the photo like a sacred relic,

the last remains of that day

by the sea, then place it

in a salt water taffy tin

with a faded post card saying,

Greetings from Asbury Park -

Wish You Were Here.

 

 

From the chapbook , Asbury Park: Seven Poems.

Used with the author’s permission.