Carl Newlen

Free Bird

- July 10, 2009, 3:31 pm | Sum Poems

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My father, the showman,
would deejay weekends
at local bars. He liked
the Commodores, Sugar Hill,
  Temptations,
    and beer,
but it was the song
by Skynard he loved -
finding the thing
   he lost.

I watched him dance,
his eyes closed,
thick factory fingers snapping
with strobes and smoke
and bar-crowd cheers.

He slid front then back,
his feet like skates.
then frantic toe-tapping,
magic that this was my father,
sweat-drenched, dripping,
and in his chest, all along,
a dying heart.

But that would happen after work
a few years later, on a Monday night,
in his early sleep.

I imagine his last day
on the assembly line:

Stepping side-to-side with machine
partners, then soft shoe back,
  spin, arms raised,
    sweet swan.

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