Dara Barnat

Then he began to walk
miles on the highway, leaving

the house at dawn, wearing
just a thin jacket, though the air

shook with cold. I know
this, because someone told me

they saw my father on
I-84, crossing a ramp that no one

was meant to cross. Drivers
perhaps thought he was

a prophet, what with his white
hair and beard, blending

into the snow. I never did see
my father walking. I must

write a poem to stop
him for a moment, to warm

his hands, to say You’re going to get
worse from here,
to bring him

a thermos of tea and a new pair
of shoes, before he walks on

to nowhere, the wind against
his face, until he can’t breathe.