Thomas Phalen Like a promise, Something you have, but cannot see. But it has to be a good one. Because a broken promise is a theft. Ice in the heart. So the promise has to be more Than what it’s printed on. Then, the promise and the print Were of a piece, A single bit. Money had weight then. And the weight mattered. The heavier the better. Like a pound Of sterling silver. Or the king’s crown, On the uneasy head. Everything was heavier then: Shovels, baseball bats, bicycles; The wrong way up weight Of the sunward pull of kites On twine-wound sticks; The dark of night, alone; The impossible mystery of death Whose haunting secrets in the Church Smelled of incense and flowers’ sweet corruption. And work, such as we did, Was heavy going For a few coins. Heavy in the palm. The heavy things were hard to heft But in the effort I learned to grapple And grew deft. But not so deft To make light yet The weight that winter, ‘sixty-four, When my father beckoned me. I, trundling down To the big motor thrumming, He, delving his pocket,
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