poem
Volume 35, Number 4

Puzzle

It unfolded years ago on a cold morning
at the bus stop. Mike shambled up to my son
with a page from the sports section.

Tear this up, please, into little bits,
he asked. So Clayton did. Smaller,
and he cupped his hands for the pieces.

Then he shuffled back up the alley
with the shreds to the house
he shared with an elderly, crippled father.

It became a morning routine. One day
the sports, another the classifieds,
occasionally the obituaries, all to bits.

Mike and his dad would spend all day
piecing the pages back together—until
the old man died. The ripping stopped.

Everyone in the neighborhood wondered
if Mike would stay in the house. But one
Saturday, he knocked on our back door

without any newspaper. Instead, he asked
Do you have any old radios that don't work?
Another routine began with broken appliances

which he'd sell to second-hand stores.
All this continued until Clayton graduated
and went away to college. Occasionally,

Mike would knock—Is Clayton home?
We could feel the vacuum of his days when
we said No. He'd just say okay, and walk away.

We'd see him in the alley, sometimes
in a shabby bathrobe, stubbled cheeks. His hair
thinned and grayed. He always needed a trim.

By then, our son had married and lived
far away, but Mike would always ask when
he'd be back as if he could sense something.

After the divorce, Mike saw Clay's car in the
drive, rapped at the back door, sports page
in hand. They talked and talked, fitting
all sorts of torn pieces together.


—Eric Chiles