Jordan Stempleman


Road to Waterloo

they’ve stolen his
identity, and
now

he wants it
back, decides
since

it’s been gone
he’s tried
Moses,

Boulez, and perfume
but they
all

stink, I mean,
nothing fits
like

what one’s given
to begin
with,

he says, wadded
up, looking
puffed

worn, and distinctly
not there,
so,

I go out,
decide, common
minds

do exist, so
knowing odds
are

I’ll never find
‘him’ again
or

people who steal
such things
never

return such things,
I’ll begin
by

finding a baby,
my sister’s
ready

to hand one
over, and
then,

after years of
self sacrifice,
no

movies except for
the old
videos

of him acting
foolish, books
he

said he read
but didn’t,
the

time will come
when, old
enough

to meet him,
my son,
grown

to an enormous
size and
likeness,

we’ll take that
long car
ride,

not speaking, not
knowing if
talking

will make it
better or
harder

to stay like
him, exactly
like

him, and when
we arrive
there

at his house,
parked under
nothing

resembling a carport,
I’ll reach
over

him, unlock the
door, push
open

the door, knowing
he’d never
do

it himself, and
watch how
slow

it seems, his
walk, his
approach

up the walk
to meet
him

for the first
time, and
when,

after years he
knocks, there
he’ll

be, looking down,
listening for
friendly

advice on what
to do
next



Jordan Stempleman is the author of Their Fields (Moria e-books, 2005) and What's the Matter (Otoliths, 2007). Recent work is forthcoming in The City Visible: Chicago Poetry for the New Century, New American Writing, Outside Voices: 2008 Anthology of Younger Poets, and P-Queue.


 
 
 
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