My Father Died 27 Years Ago Today

This was not written to commemorate his death, but it popped into my head this morning...

From the Permanent Collection

Jesus and my father ride the streetcar home from work

in the belly of the 1930s, Los Angeles, California.

Stepping aboard, a woman trips; my father catches her elbow.

Jesus compares this moment in the City of Angels with

the time angels lifted him above Satan in the desert.

Los Angeles is a desert town, Jesus remarks.  Like Phoenix.

It seems Jesus’ wife is in Phoenix for a couple of days;

he invites my father out for a drink.

William Paul Murray, a young wife at home, declines.

Another time, Jesus says.  Say, I heard a joke this afternoon.

He leans into my father, lips to his ear;

this one is not for general audiences.

After a moment my father smiles; he’s heard a lot of jokes,

but the joke Jesus tells him on that streetcar is not one of them.

Ah, but who’s to say he wouldn’t have smiled anyway,

out of politeness, even if it was a joke he already knew.

My father tells Jesus his stop is approaching. 

Jesus pats him on the back and wishes him a pleasant evening.

William Paul Murray, true to his word, goes home to his wife.

Jesus stops off for a pint of rye and some Chinese food.

He lights a small cigar and sits on his front steps,

reflecting on the day.  He misses his wife;

he is a good husband, Jesus.  Later, he puts on the radio

and listens to the fights from the Olympic Auditorium.

He closes his eyes.  He falls asleep in his chair.

IBL:mm