Preparing for the Funeral
On the bench a hammer waits for
gnarled
fingers to play familiar tunes of
swing
and pop.
Rubber galoshes skid to the barn,
bruise
the grass. The window frames dad tinkering
hinges from a door. He spins familiar
talk, his jaw a common bone we
share.
The call came . . . too late; his
relic detoured
to dance in our front room. Dad lit the air
swayed like a constellation, a
fragment
of the Milky Way. I worried the house
with silent bellows.
Sun filters through dirty glass to
lay
silent on the hardwood floor in
angular
maps.
I knew him better for that airy
jig.
His explanation of black, bunched
eyebrows
over eyes that had seen World War
II,
water stains on the ceiling, and
holes
in his daughter’s socks.
From Arizona, California,
Idaho, Montana they came. I
loaned them pillows, fed
them. Dad rambled
among us brushing a cheek, riding
a chuckle. His best profile was called
upon.
The bouquet on the piano drips
petals.
Its scent, like over ripened
fruit, oils
the musty air.
A.M. Adams
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