|
|
WAVING ACROSS THE RESERVOIR
I wave to you across the reservoir
as I walk circles around this
dream, you still sitting there, Dad, like one of those
geese that long ago forgot how to
migrate, with your
white baseball hat perched above
the Walgreen’s on-sale sunglasses from 1987
(“Nothing wrong with them!”), and
that green oxygen tank attached to your nose
tube.
The water is like a mirror
reflecting back
how we
did it.
I would walk.
You would sit.
I still wave, because I do see you on that
bench, and so what
that you are no
longer there.
Do we require that love be
visible to know its real?
And courage...courage is never
something you can
touch.
Only after writing this poem,
did I realize it was your birthday.
June 10, 2011
Brookline, Mass.