154 The Meadow Before Richard Robbins 1. Smoke swims out the cabin stove pipe, binding to fog the way a gray overcoat joins the mob, swelling toward the park, the way maple leaves fall, fanning the green of the great lawn. 2. I watched my father leave one Wednesday bound in a truck for no good. Years later I saw my mother open her eyes to the sick-bed ceiling, close them to waves at Venice Beach, the click skates made along the boardwalk, the icy orange pulp the stranger brings her at a stand before he offers a Pall Mall, before he leads her, one north step after the next, all the way to the Santa Monica pier.
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