rituals

as a wedding gift I was given
a book of Tibetan wisdom
a single epigraph for each day
of the year, to offset an image
of Buddhist Shangri-La

when my father visits he scans
through the volume for the pictures,
skipping over words; when I walk
past it’s no longer October 13th
a month out from my son’s birth

dog-eared to a page of street
children marking March &
the winter chill, I restore
the calendar back to today’s date
return to find the book opened

to a spread of Himalayan
mountains, my father moving
backwards, resists time

future POTUS

when I tell my father
Tomo was born w/ the caul,
he’s sure the boy is destined
for greatness, future leader
of the free world, my father has never
voted in a domestic election
though he lays claim to shaking
hands w/ Ronald Reagan
once in an elevator in the 1990s
after the Gipper’s term is up
before dementia sets in
at five, my father had already
instilled in my brother how
he would be a doctor; my path
writ as lawyer – I parroted
this profession to all who asked
what do you want to be when you grow up
not yet knowing law the meaning
of calling, the power of speech