I wrote this poem four days before my dad passed away.


Terminal restlessness

His eyes see blue skies.
Must be nice; this morning's rainstorm
didn't help anything. There he goes again,
struggling to get up out of bed.
Where are you going, Dad?
Home.


10/24/04



I wrote this one when I went to buy my last father's day card for him.


card shopping

see me standing helplessly
in front of rows and rows of bright, cheerful
fathers day cards. struggling to find one that fits,
i glance inside one. no, absolutely not.
humor simply isn't appropriate, yet
anything too sentimental hurts more.
the rows and rows of friendly greeting cards
begin to blur as i fight back tears-- but see me
still try to find a single card with
which to say good-bye.