this is
a waterwheel that doesn’t belong
on the face of a loved one
the gushing lake of just about
the captured sonata of a lifelong stillness
this is standing bedside
the greatest man I could never know
the stoic calloused hands
that made train tracks and other, less societally
relevant
additions to my universe
now devoured the privilege of strength
this is dad handing me a baseball
mom trying the same with a marker
and me holding both out
wanting to be done with the entirety
“could you sign this, grandpa?”
He’s crying
this is my concussed recounting
of a failed and successful farewell
