He was larger than life
   even shriveled
      even the size of a
septuagenarian
   even at 85
      even growing smaller in mind
and spirit
   the last year I saw him
he was larger than life and
   I still looked up . . . .

He was 59 and I
   was a child with
arms and legs dangling
       as though they were made of
purple and orange pipe cleaners
and when he said to hang on
   I thought of Forefathers
      of Revolutionaries
   hanging on to their ideals
and my arms wrapped tight
   like the rubber band on his bread . . . .

The long-ago far-away again and
   again of the
Last Year I Saw Him
   seems to come around
      like Fruit Stripe on a bicycle wheel
   seems to come around
      like a broken holiday of
can/can't come because/without
and you drop
   like a barbell weight
like a drop of blood
      like a ream of cardstock printed with maps
to find you and
   to find you and
to find you had just received a thick file from
   the Feds.

     Again.