Fred Johnston: With My Father on Broadway in the Rain

He’s in a white sleeveless shirt, no jacket
When we left The Times Square Hotel
Warm sun thumped on the yellow cabs
And now under an awning and the rain making a racket
On the canvas. He had me by the hand
And along the length of my bare arm I felt the bell
Grown-ups have in their chest begin to quiver

The rain noise, sparks of rain on the pavement
Unnerved him in all that space
Everyone speeding up, kicking drain water all over
The colours of things more or less hosed away and irrelevant
I looked all the way up a dozen floors
And found his rain-disfigured face
He looked as if he’d gone away and gone forever

I wanted to be back in our hotel room
Looking out the single window from that height
Knowing I could not fall, that if all gave way I could always fly
But this was like watching a wing fail and split and consume
Itself in shrill wet air, and I felt myself unbalance –
Even as the rain on Broadway dried itself in new light
And we pushed off from under the awning, I felt no better.

Copyright 2024 Fred Johnston

Fred Johnston (born 1951) is an Irish poet, novelist, literary critic and musician. He is the founder and director of the Western Writers’ Centre in Galway. He co-founded the Irish Writers’ Co-operative in 1974, as well as Galway’s annual Cúirt International Festival of Literature in 1986. His many books include Rogue States (Salmon Poetry, 2019).