Your father, 95, still decked out
in the full length of his thoughts,
props himself up for politics,
percentage points, still gets your jokes.
If a glint of his mean streak’s struck,
you’re safe— you’re on the same team now,
matching laugh for laugh until he coughs
in waves of twisting bed and tubes,
and motions you to leave the room.
or,
Dad stands at his kitchen window,
mint-shaven, sweater vest.
He’s just called 911 again
as three imaginary boys
joyride his dead car in circles
in the yard, his back turned
to you, though you feel his thoughts
finding you—by static, by heat,
your height, your hair—they hover
where you lean against his fridge,
but drift off when he turns
and sees you there, whoever you are.
Leave a Reply