Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum
All the patrons at this Spencer’s look so happy
Even he, the psychologist’s son, is fooled.
A father stands before the front window brushing
His daughter’s hair. A woman in thick-rimmed
Glasses, a paisley tie knotted high on her throat,
Smiles into a Dell. A college kid biking
Through the Denver gray releases great huffs
Of breath like joy. The man could have been,
Has been, could be all of them: The cyclist
Unaffected by cold, they who slips on wingtips
And knots a tie for work—how many times
Has he dreamed of brushing a daughter’s hair?
In the bathroom mirror designed specifically
For his use, the man tries to unwrite the face
He finds there: Difficulty breathing from his cheeks,
Panic in crowds from crow’s feet, the shadow
Of his loveless marriage from beneath his eyes.
He’s always felt more She than He but has never
Written a stitch about it. Back in his seat,
He can’t help but notice the play of light
On the woman’s glasses, the daughter’s gaze
Out the window, the cyclist long gone. It
Is April. It is snowing. Snow puddles the sidewalk.
Snow strikes the ground without a sound.
