My Father

Tin bird in the sky

“Look below, all those little cars are toys”

Wonder fills his eyes.

America must be a wonderful place

To have so many toys, ready to play with

Unknown lands approach,

Yet as they descend, he finds his father was wrong.

These aren’t toy cars;

They’re real, only grown-ups can play with them.

The toys give way to struggle:

He hardly sees his parents anymore, 

They work late, 

His bicycle is stolen thrice,

The third time, they do not replace it

His sister plays a paper piano;

Likes to think she’s Elton John.

He wonders why she even tries.

Airplane

Today he returns to his home

Korea has not changed

Except in every way

Where is his home?

Where is the ajumma that used to sell the dobboki?

He searches, but all has been replaced

His home has forgotten him

Homes are supposed to remember

Where does he return now?

Transporter of dreams

On one of many business trips,

He never knows how to feel.

Important, overwhelmingly

Powerless,

Powerful,

Hopefully competent.

Scattered around the plane, 

There are dreams, zigzagging, crossing, snapping.

Dreams of a child moving to England;

Dreams of a boy going to college, to return a successful man;

Dreams of families running from themselves.

The cars are real;

He comes home for his son,

Sometimes late, sometimes early,

But he tries.

His son loses his bicycle;

It was brought to their front steps the next day,

Neatly leaned against the porch swing

He will return to their home in three days.

He will buy his son the new keyboard that he wanted.

William Boo