I see his pick up in the yard--the grass is dead
from the heat anyway

he is nowhere to be found, except
passed out on the seat

with one of his feet touching the turf
the other still in the truck

afraid if it joins its partner on solid soil
it won't be a happy marriage

he is my child--all quarter century of him
and he won't bring in the paper

I am sure he rolled his truck on top of it...to protect me
from the news of an awful world

I hope I wouldn't smash my thumb
or throw it

through the picture window, like my neighbor did,
just yesterday,

while I was mowing my grass
which is yet half high

because I had to watch while the police arrested
my hammer heaving pal

who hates his unfaithful wife, his yapping Chihuahua,
and his life;

the spouse and spunky canine
are just fine it seems,

fortunate there was glass to shatter
on a Saturday afternoon

roadkill diners
Texas highway cleaners
a swooping trio of you--a blue
black choreography

what
had you spotted
on the hot
asphalt?

in a decade
of seconds, you
vanished--or actually
I did, leaving a wake
of you in my own
wake:

a shimmering heat mirage
in a rearview mirror, a memory
more mythical than your feast

I watch them
walk in: slow, not quite *****

white beard on one,
double chin on another

I estimate their seasons--an
appraiser assessing damages

of gravity and grief, cells
dividing, multiplying without relief

I was a lanky, lurching teen
when they were yet in diapers

soon, they'll be clad
in such humble attire again

I'll be there waiting, already
accustomed to such leaking humility

they dine there Saturdays;
once the dire discussion of
which entrees to order is over, there
is mostly silence between them

and a candle that burns

on every table--wax trails
on the wine bottles which
cradle them; creating a grand grotto
of paraffin they take turns fondling  

gone are those nights

when their hands locked
across the gingham, their eyes
seeing through the fire, blind to
any shadow it cast on the other

the light remains,

though now they see
only beneath it, a biography of
burnt offerings on the wine's empty
flask,  a meal soon to be forgotten

the gardener you hired is outside,
his ******* tools roaring:

the heaving bellows of a big bear
the whining of a radiated hornet

when the quiet of Monday morning
returns; I lay down my book
to take a look

he is yet here, snipping the
neighbor's Oleander

yes, it's still eager to climb over
our fence

he is stepping in the dormant beds
I told him not to desecrate--the black earth
where your petunias lived

I buried both your cats there,
with little ceremony

just as you requested, your last Monday

he lay in a bed at the Salvation Army
the last in a row of bunks he knew well;
through the window, he heard birdsong

not the lugubrious refrain
of mourning dove, but a song
he did not recognize, sad nonetheless

the captain brought him ice chips
and let him stay, for he knew this was
the closest thing to home the old man had

this and a spot under the bridge
he shared with bats, most springs
summers and autumns, until the first frost

never again would he be outside
never again would he see the bridge
never again would he leave this bed

how nice to have music
in your final hours, he mused, how nice
to have a bed and pillow to rest his head

outside the window, sitting cross legged
on winter's dead grasses, a girl played her
flute, unaware of the audience she entertained

she was young enough to be his
granddaughter, but was not, for his only child
had died of black blood cancer, when she was nine

in all his years he'd heard myriad
birds' song, chanting chirps wedded to
the winds, winsome, but not like today's trilling

what he now heard faintly, as if through
warm water, soothed him, lulled him closer to
a deep sleep, one he knew would come soon enough

he did not fight it--take a nap he thought,
when he woke, the lullaby would still be there,
white winged creatures would yet make song
though now in great flight, far from this bed