Dara Barnat
Then he began to walk
miles on the highway, leaving
the house at dawn, wearing
just a thin jacket, though the air
shook with cold. I know
this, because someone told me
they saw my father on
I-84, crossing a ramp that no one
was meant to cross. Drivers
perhaps thought he was
a prophet, what with his white
hair and beard, blending
into the snow. I never did see
my father walking. I must
write a poem to stop
him for a moment, to warm
his hands, to say You’re going to get
worse from here, to bring him
a thermos of tea and a new pair
of shoes, before he walks on
to nowhere, the wind against
his face, until he can’t breathe.