For William Bronson, MD

Sudden growling of a truck
broke the stillness of Sunday morning,
sent a flotilla of pigeons skyward over rooftops,
air filled with their cooing.
These were neighbourhoods that smelled of grapes
trellised above front doors,
where kids played stickball in the streets.

We waited in the double-parked Caddie,
Mother in the front seat,
silently reading the paper,
my brother and I playing Old Maid
while Father walked up stone steps
of homes guarded by concrete lions,
black bag in hand.

Seven days a week he worked,
disregarding the biblical injunction,
but Sunday afternoons, he was ours —
leading us through halls of dinosaurs,
by wildebeests in dioramas of the African veldt
and trips to the Bronx Zoo —
tigers brooding their captivity,
the penguin house,
and wild pony rides.