My Father’s Compass
by Tricia Knoll

My father’s slim compass, its needle swinging
in idleness in a nicked mahogany case
hides in a drawer in my hallway.

I think it was his father’s,
but what use is it now
when my phone tells me
how to get anywhere

and rust on the compass needle
weighs it down as if north
is several degrees underground.

Its use is nestling
so my father is not lost.


NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Officially I say I’m downsizing. That may not be the truth. I’m a poet with shelves upon shelves of poetry books, a bunch of knickknacks, and then pieces like this compass (pictured above). My poetry collections include Ocean’s Laughter (Aldrich Press, 2016) and a chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Visit her at