My father’s picture hangs in the music building.
Second row, not cavalier tall,
mouth frozen around a hole–
he posed for 1931.
I tap on the glass to get his attention.
Does the young
man know me
across the dripping greens the
same mouth the converted
marble tearooms?
He stares acres above
any courtyard
trying
to make the connection…
In the foyer
only a bust of John Hay
has broken through,
his nose rubbed gold
by local myths of luck
endlessly unearthing
a burnished stately
drunk
belting down the years
with no hands taking
the cure.