Two for my Father

Hauling my Father Away

The man who hauled my father away

arrived at the trailer park in a black Chevy Blazer

with funereal curlicues painted on the back window.

The trailer was disintegrating, my father was big,

and though it was a grey February day

the man was sweating through his black polyester.

When the wheel on the gurney hit the hole on the floor

my father flopped sideways like a tuna

trying to catapult itself out the door.

My brother and I laughed

in spite of ourselves.

We were so tired.

And our father was so gone.

 

For my Father, Five Years Dead

I said I love you as I left that day.

You didn’t hear me say it, I suspect.

I’d turned to go, the machines were in the way,

and I wasn’t even sure it’s what I meant.

The dark familial clutter clears away

as years and failures all my own amass.

I say I loved you easier today,

not just because you are not coming back.