barcelona

my father, at eighty-two,
on the phone, coughs and clears
his throat before telling me
again the story of when we
were in barcelona in nineteen
fifty nine and a horse
and wagon were hit by a car,
and how the man, bleeding
from his crushing wounds
was loaded into the back
seat of his torquoise chevy
impala brought in all the way
from philadelphia. the wonder
in his voice always amazes
me, the clear vision of that
dying man in the back seat,
speaking in spanish, groaning
as we rushed him to the hospital.
i can see the blood, see his
dark brown eyes staring into
mine as he approached death,
our lives impossibly crossing
paths, and me just six years
old. but my father goes on
with the story even though
my mind is way ahead of him.
and as i let him tell me the tale
again over the phone i wonder
what he's trying to say really,
what message this story might have
if one at all. but he never
remembers turning my head away
when the policeman comes over with
a gun to put the crippled horse
down as she lies on the side
of the road. i remember hearing
the shot, and feeling my fathers
large hand gently holding my head,
trying to keep me from the brutality
of the world for just a short
while longer, but it was too late.