THIS MAN WHO IS NOT MY FATHER IS MY FATHER

This man
who is not

my father

is

my
father.

The others laugh:

“It’s not your turn but
he calls only for you! ”

And so I go
& clean him up

his skeleton thin body
splashed with ***** & sh.

I laugh & joke
with him.

He chuckles
as I tell him:

“Johnny....you used to be
so full of crap
but sh...now you’re not! ”

Lucky
our Irish sense of humour

extends this far

say anything with love and
it becomes so.

It is a tired old joke
but like a child he

pounces on its nuances
relishing each pause and stupid syllable!

I bathe
him

this man
who is not my father

gently as if he were

my child.

I sing
to him
all the old songs

I learned
at my father’s hands

as he bathed me.

“...why does my poor heart keep following you...”

We sing together
softly as I bathe him

dress him
anew

in the memory
of my father.

This man
who is not

my father

becomes
my father

as my hands learn
to care for him.

I settle
a pillow

behind
his head

wipe sweat
from his forehead

stroke
his hair

until  his sleep
is full

of dreams

...dreams.

*

He was only skin and bone and very weak...one could imagine Death standing by. He was always amazed that "How does a young fella like you know that" or as I would bathe him when he soiled himself I would sing the "Old Refrain" and again he would  say "But how does a young fella like you know a song like that!?" And the answer was always the same "My Da would always sing it to me when I was small and he was bathing me!" Or my Da would suddenly recite to me when tying my shoelaces or combing my hair "Jenny kiss'd me!" Or sing to me as he worked in his plot...'Liverpool  Lou.' And so the love of these would be passed from my Da to me and so to him. We all loved these things in a line stretching all the way back to my Da's young days in the 1920's. Love never goes away it just changes into another person  and an old poem and an old song would be the means to carry that love.