Father's Day

 On the first anniversary of Grandpa Guy's death:

Father’s Day

  Death Certificate I

Item 7A—
City and state of birth (if not USA, Country and Region/Province):
Tianjin, China.
Thirteen years there before the Civil War
liberated you from your birthplace,
diasporating your clan to the four corners:
New York, San Francisco, Italy, Australia.
I guess they couldn’t have liked each other
that much, but you wouldn’t know from
all the stories that lasted another seventy-two years,
longer, for sure, than your Chinese,
except for the cuss words.


  Monday Evenings

we chatted.
Real football first: Serie A, Roma, and Lecce
before the guileless Premier League you preferred.
Then all manner of New York teams:
Giants, Jets, Mets, Yankees, Islanders.
Forget the putrid Knicks and pro hoops 
but college for sure, including every second of every
UCONN women’s game (even the 50-point blowouts),
as well as UVA’s magical run during
one last March Madness.
Spring was lax season too,
despite the Blue Jays’ long drought.
Every week the tally from last Friday’s poker game,
mostly winning, while needling the MAGA crowd
as only you could, till political talk was banned
to keep friendships intact. Some black humor
about how you were spending my inheritance.
Many times recycling the old tales,
especially China and the Army,
but occasionally one I hadn’t heard.
And always, always, memories of Mom, like
hardly a day had passed in seven years.
Ending with the play-by-play of whatever
game or old movie you had on at the time.
Monday evenings,
K tracked me down to wheedle a back rub
while we chatted. Now I can hardly give one,
since I can’t do the other anymore.


  Death Certificate II

Part I of item 30—
Immediate cause of death:
Cardiopulmonary arrest.
Approximate interval between onset and death:
Six minutes.
That’s the certifying physician’s guess,
anyway.
Lying on the floor of the den,
bile and blood dribbling down
your chin, dripping
onto the cross
I washed off
and keep in a lockbox
with your watch and wallet,
were the six minutes, give or take,
enough for last thoughts?
That the baseboard needed dusting,
or I’ll just rest here a minute,
or did you know and imagine joining Mom?
Or was it just the shackles squeezing
your heart too tight, only
pain and blackness taking hold?
There’s no box on the form for the doctor
to speculate about that,
anyway.


  Father’s Day

Heading out on a run, who knows what I’ll see,
now that the critters aren’t getting run over so much?
A few weeks ago, sauntering
right down the middle of Stoney Creek Drive,
it was a yearling bear, blasé at my arrival.
Two days later, a red fox gave me the hairy eyeball
in front of the deserted UVA Chapel.
Today it was just a gaggle of geese. But I wish
everything was so funny as the guard goose,
standing on one foot, one wing cocked,
hissing at me through a minacious serrated tongue,
then looking confused when I returned fire.
I wonder if you would have found humor in this, too,
but then I think maybe it’s better you never had to try.