“ . . . Brancusi taught me the truth of materials.”

– Isamu Noguchi

In my father’s house is a propeller,

Not a work of art, or nature, not steel Or driftwood, but a little of each by way Of City Hall, one blade, one of four once, Curved like a wing, fastened along the edges By brass studs, sitting in a corner through Generations of judges in City Hall, Half a corridor block from my father’s Office, until he retired as Chief Crier Of Quarter Sessions Court, bringing home his Gold badge, which I can’t find, his Brancusi, Which I’ve never lost sight of, yet no plane’s History of military service Or flying banners over the beaches Of Atlantic City. It must have seen Flight duty of some sort, but landed one Day in the courts, and stayed for thirty years, Cigar smoke instead of mist the only Hazard, court officers and lawyers shouting In marble halls like mechanics in hangars. It didn’t move for changes in government, Weathered political storms, since, unseen, It was unused, an unfound work of art, An inflected wing of polished wood, The block attachment to the axle-shaft A natural base on the floor of the Hall In Philadelphia. Finally he told The President Judge he’d like to take The blade home. Now the old court officers, Who were so devoted to the racing Form, wonder what it is they miss, a shape With a familiar sweep, the politics Of pure air. They lean on marble window Ledges, wondering what the Chief Crier Took home with him, two sons shouldering Something wrapped and tied in a couple Of discarded judges’ gowns.