<\/p>\n
The Boy With the Fiddle in a Crowded Square<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The young are so talented,<\/em> my father says to me with children in their strollers. My son is not listening the market traffic weaving around us like luminous boats. I\u2019m telling him the long fly balls I missed in little league the hymn of its republic. Tonight, I will write a real letter He will know each disappointment is a note like the wind each other\u2019s hearts by bending forward as my father does now, <\/p>\n Oliver de la Paz<\/a> is the author of three books of poetry: Names Above Houses,<\/a> Furious Lullaby,<\/a> <\/em>and Requiem for the Orchard<\/em>.<\/a> He is the co-editor along with Stacey Lynn Brown of A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry<\/em>.<\/a> A recipient of grants from the Artist’s Trust and NYFA, he co-chairs the Kundiman.org advisory board. He teaches at Western Washington University and lives in Deming, WA.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Boy With the Fiddle in a Crowded Square The young are so talented, my father says to me as he palms a bill to drop into the boy\u2019s violin case. Early, and the market is a riot … Continue reading
\nas he palms a bill to drop into the boy\u2019s violin case.
\nEarly, and the market is a riot with greens. Each stand
\nparades its wares while other parents cart by<\/p>\n
\nto the music\u2014he\u2019s off somewhere in his dreaming mind
\nwhere anything can be hidden and people are ghosts.
\nI drop a dollar at the musician\u2019s feet and he gives a light nod,<\/p>\n
\nIn my head, I\u2019m writing a letter to my father, explaining
\nhow every mistake I\u2019ve made is palpable now,
\nthe way the clouds take on human flaws with the wind.<\/p>\n
\nare dropping, one by one, at my feet. I\u2019m penning
\nthe collapse of each of my coliseums because right now,
\nson-hood is a promise of ruination and this violin song,<\/p>\n
\nto my son. It will reveal footprints on each proving ground
\nand halve every distance I\u2019ve traveled. The earthen line
\nof my pen will hum as my son\u2019s eyes read each line.<\/p>\n
\npassing through the cable of a bridge. Each song
\nwill rise, and hold the people in this market above
\nragged waters. They will know how to listen. To parse<\/p>\n
\nsmiling at the fiddle player, then at my son. Slowly,
\nthe soloist\u2019s notes thin into sliced apples\u2014the crowd\u2019s
\npolite applause surging, then gone.<\/p>\n