--for Pop, 10/15/1914 - 9/20/2005
I should have a hammer in my hand
3-penny nails at the ready, or my fingernails
black with transmission grease from one of those
big rigs that hauls freight East down Interstate 8.
Maybe I need to shave a wood shim to keep the refrigerator
from rocking every time I open its door to get some milk.
I don't do those things. Never been able to make my fingers
work like that very well. Mine fit slick, black computer
keys or # 2 pencils -- words, words, words
that fail me now as I contemplate
my father's death
With him gone, after nearly ninety-one years, who will build
fences, who will be certain that window jams are square,
who'll fix the washing machines of the earth?
I'm the only one who knows, but the world's at the very edge
of utter disintegration.
Image: Blackbirds Singing at the Edge of Night