That Summery Look
Early this morning, asleep, I was back
in that living room. Dad at the hearth,
an elbow up on the mantel, drink
in his other hand, we were discussing
his death, which was on its way.
I was admiring his pale blue suit,
its easy-yet-tailored fit,
open-collar white shirt, tan loafers
he wore without socks, that summery look
he went for. And his hair’s walnut sheen,
its subtle wave, soft glow of his cheeks —
here he was, the timeless guy
everyone liked. But we knew
he was ill. I said days to weeks.
He answered quietly, moments now.
None of the steroid bloating, weakness,
delirium, bedsores, stumbling speech.
And no denial. No last-minute deals.
Helping me with it this time. Able
to settle for what had been possible.
I reached my hand out to stroke
his jacket sleeve, to feel the material,
try to tell if it was linen, cotton,
silk, or a blend. It is what seemed
to matter, still, this close to the end.
No holding a straw to cracked lips,
no watching him choke on his pills.
My chance to see the man leave
as he’d lived — he would set down the glass,
grasp me by the shoulders and peer
into my eyes for a while, then look
past me once he’d spotted the taxi
through a front window. He would let go
and head for the door. But I woke
just as I touched the sky he wore.