Yeshayah Goldfarb
My son has skiied the slopes of icy mountains,
circled in a helicopter over a busy town,
scuba-dived in warm tropical seas,
and sat through lectures in crowded college halls.
He has embraced his lover from every angle
and lain with her amid rumpled sheets.
He has dealt cards with his friends till morning came
and grunted in a gym, two hundred pounds above his head.
We have played Scrabble for hours at a time
and strike-out at the nearest handball court,
thrown a football down the block,
and watched some truly awful sit-coms.
Yet never have I seen him more at peace
than now, stretched between two easy chairs,
both thumbs hooked under his drawstring sweats,
breathing in the aura of his family home.
2 Tevet, 5758 / December 30, 1997 / Berkeley
