A Poem by Patricia A.
I watch my dad as he looks past the floor,
pensive,
sitting on the edge of his bed,
the edge of his life,
about to run out of ground on which to walk.
His knees are apart
at shoulders width.
His hands clasp loosely to each other,
not as if praying or holding on to life,
but just to keep them busy,
keep them from hanging
at his sides.
After fifty years of labor,
his hands refuse to fall idle
to the sides.
Fifty years-
fifteen to sixty five-he worked,
though his body wanted out
at sixty two. He knew better.
Now, he builds cabinets
around the house,
not straight or leveled
the way he could before.
He cleans and cooks
and even bathes the dog,
the one he never cared for
or wanted us to keep.
But we don’t need new cabinets,
or shelves,
or scraps of wood filling the many gaps.
We need him.
We need him to stop looking past the floor
into his grave.
We need his hands to clasp in prayer,
and hold on,
and not fall off our life.
2 responses so far ↓
1 jgoggin // Apr 27, 2008 at 10:33 am
Very nicely done. Powerfully structured with delicious repetition of the physical details. Hands, shoulders, floors, … Thank you.
2 Patricia A // Apr 27, 2008 at 10:41 pm
jgoggin,
Thank you for your kind assessment.
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