by Michael Sandler —
My Uncle Saul once gave me a book
on the signers of the Declaration.
Like Franklin he had a fatherly look
though no children,
a knack for silly jokes,
and he fancied science,
taking a whirl at my experiments
with a junior chemistry set
he bought to draw me out
from my innate ambivalence.
My actual father thought
him more turncoat, Loyalist
to a 9 to 5 government post,
ambitionless, wasting hours
on walks or hunched over a history text
sipping a Madeira—but a child
could fly with him, above towers,
schoolyards, battlefields, enthralled
by his stories: one about a chase
through the Vitebsk woods,
a boy runs from soldiers, hides
in a gully as boots stomp past…
My filial allegiance embraced him
and though now (like my true dad)
I salute flags of success,
I sense within me his inclination
to stroll through a park, its new-mown fields,
to sit by a lamp with an old tome,
contentments defying excess
and honored without cannonades—
military displays leave me cold
recalling his relief in evading
that Soviet patrol, his wariness
of rank and standing—how it frees
when someone out of step parades
what we want to believe.
Michael Sandler’s poems have appeared in more than 30 journals, including California Quarterly, Crack the Spine, Valparaiso Poetry Review and Zone 3. For his day job, he works as an arbitrator.