“Wine dark sea—that’s from Homer, you know,”
said my father. about a book that I was reading
called The Wine Dark Sea.

I was furious at the old idiot
for presuming that he might know something
I didn’t already understand.

So I’ve grown up to be one of those people
who gets angry at trees
for behaving like trees,

who kneels in hotel rooms and bangs his head
softly against the carpet, asking for help,
another kind of room service.

I remember the time he told me he had read
Don Quixote in the original French.
When I wrecked the car it was him I called, collect.

At Christmas, I’ll send him a case of grapefruit.
When he dies, I’ll fly to the funeral
with a whole unpublished text inside me,

which I’ll quietly read en route,
making certain overdue corrections.
Looking out the window

at the Old World
passing below,
as dark and unknown as the sea.