Poem: Chores Were Done

Chores were done,

supper was cooking,

and dad had washed his hands.

He hunched his body

back in the saggy-seated rocker

in the dining room of the brick farmhouse.

Then reached over to the cluttered

stand he had built, himself,

and picked up the Marine Band Harmonica.

His arms and hands wrapped

around the instrument,

cupping it, close to his mouth.

He crossed his legs,

and the upper foot began to beat

a rhythm in the air.

His eyes closed, and his brow gathered, a bit.

His lips pursed to press

against the open reeds.

A few notes were all I needed,

to know which Irish or Scottish tune

he was in,

and you could hear the rocker, rocking,

and feel the rhythm

on the old dining room floor,

to match the rhythm of the tune.