Joyce Sutphen

My Father Comes to the City 
Tonight his airplane comes in from the West,

and he rises from his seat, a suitcoat slung

over his arm. The flight attendant smiles

and says, "Have a nice visit," and he nods

as if he has done this all before,

as if his entire life hasn't been 170 acres

of corn and oats, as if a plow isn't dragging

behind him through the sand and clay,

as if his head isn't nestling in the warm

flank of a Holstein cow.

Only his hands tell the truth:

fingers thick as ropes, nails flat

and broken in the trough of endless chores.

He steps into the city warily, breathing

metal and exhaust, bewildered by the

stampede of humanity circling around him.

I want to ask him something familiar,

something about tractors and wagons,

but he is taken by the neon night,

crossing carefully against the light.


*Joyce Sutphen (born 1949) is an American poet, currently serving as Minnesota's Poet Laureate