Sun pours through the window,
A bright rectangle on white carpet.
The clockwork rhythm of Bach
Fills the room. I dream of clear
Rivers rushing through pine forests,
Silent canyons, red and mysterious,
Great swells pounding the purple
Cliffs of Cornwall.

On Sunday afternoons, my father
Would fall asleep in a wooden chair
In sunlight dimmed by sooty windows,
His hands calloused and curled
In his lap. Nine nails grimy
From thirty years in dust,
The tenth a cat’s claw thrust
From a mashed finger.

With his life spent within
The boundaries of the mills,
What were the settings of his dreams?
Were they cast in smoke that reeked
Of coal and oil, attended by
The rumble and cry of trains?

Were there dreams we shared?
The stagger in the pheasant’s flight
At the shotgun’s blast, that flash
Of silver as we pulled fish from
The April river, stab of thorns
In July’s berry patch, the skin-like
Feel of mushrooms picked
In September rain?

Did he dream of steady work
In a clean place, having all his bills
Paid up, living in a warm house?
Or did he only dream of smoking
A really good cigar?

Born in the industrial town of Lima, Ohio, Gene Kimmet’s early employment included being a lens grinder, foundry worker, service station worker and salesman. While he labored to pay the bills he worked his way to degrees in economics from Ohio Northern, Case Western Reserve and Northern Illinois universities. This led to a career as an economics professor at William Rainey Harper College in Palatine, Illinois.

Throughout his time as an economist, Kimmet was passionate about another pursuit—poetry. Over the years he expertly crafted poems that, as Michael F. Latza observes in Willow Review, “deftly place us all into the impetus of the moment.”

Kimmet’s Collected Poems brings together the four volumes published during his lifetime: In Fee Simple (Stormline Press, 1986), Skipping Stone (Dream Stone Press, 2000), Recollections of My Father (Canopic, 2015) and Shadows (Canopic, 2019).