Visiting Elizabeth (ROUND 4)

Let's workshop this poem about a teenager going with his father on a supervised visit to see his sister

scent of the day: Nose Rest Day

*I think I have a nice complete draft here. I like how the centrality of the beer is reflected in the length of time I spent talking about the beer compared to other things—-especially the supervised visit itself. This poem was published before but when I was young. My writing has developed a lot since then. And I am stricken by the forever-revise bug of Whitman anyway. I like, today at least, where this is going. It is a true story.

Visiting Elizabeth

The last time I saw my sister Elizabeth—two decades,
or more, gone now—was the last our dad ever would.
It was in Poughkeepsie, the same drab building where
he once sat across from me. That day we visited, under
the same cold eye of CPS, she was the age I had been.

Grandpa drove us. My dad, nicked and AquaVelvaed,
sat in the backseat, swallowed by the chronic garbage—
me, jittery too, on his lap. The battle against the bags
shifting and spilling, stink spiced by Grandma crotch
and her lap yorkie, lent poor distraction to our nerves.

My dad said to drop us at a gas station. “Here’s good,”
he said. “Need cigarettes.” But that was only half of it.
The junkyard Mazda still idled as we exited the store.
My dad was off beer. And Grandma had her hawk eye 
on the brown paper bag, too short, cradled in my arm. 

“Mike!” Grandma yelled as we passed by. “Hey Mike!”
My dad still sped on, muttering. I followed his lead,
pretending not to hear. “Mike, the stuff—the camera!”
I jogged back through slush for the disposable Kodak
and the coloring book with its built-in wax crayons.

My dad cracked the forty as we walked, downing swigs
with chin-dribbling desperation for the big day. “Aah.”
We stopped under a tree. City Hall towered above us.
We were late. He looked to me for helping sips. “Dad,
come on. No way. I’m not going in there all fucked up.” 

Who could my dad be, Newport cap new, but himself? 
He haggled. “Hold it for me then.” My face the answer,
he fought. “Look at dem baggy pants, Boy!” But I knew
not to be in City Hall—after metal detectors, guards—
failing, ghetto as hell, to hold up my sloshing sweats.

The plan’s blatant absurdity, thoughts of how warmth
(not to mention all the jostling) would spoil the beer—
something had him give up. At a park bench he buried it
in snow. To the eyes of a passing suit—no doubt nailed
by a barrier of malty funk—I said, “Gotta keep it cool.”

Guards patted us down. Me and my dad’s gazes locked.
His buckled right away. Still, I rubbed it in—chuckling.
“See what I mean?” A long elevator of eyes, then a hall
whose flicker would wobble anyone, took us to a room.
Elizabeth walked in holding the hand of a caseworker.

A beer smooch sent Elizabeth hiding beneath the table.
The worker looked me down. I was dressed like a thug.
Her head shook as if over the stink, over the whole job—
eyes on her watch. My dad coaxed “Liz Bean” to his lap.
I took photos while she colored, shooting me flirty eyes.

Grandpa was idling curbside when we exited. He said
“Nope” to the park despite my dad’s “I dropped money.”
Perhaps hoping to fix what he never would, soon my dad
changed his tune—agitating garbage in theater: “Got it—
other pocket.” For the trip he bought them their Win4.

* “Visiting Elizabeth” originally appeared in Flapperhouse (2016)