WAVING ACROSS THE RESERVOIR


I wave to you across the reservoir
      as I walk circles around this
dream, you still sitting there, Dad, like one of those
            geese that long ago forgot how to
migrate, with your
                  white baseball hat perched above
       the Walgreen’s on-sale sunglasses from 1987
            (“Nothing wrong with them!”), and
 that green oxygen tank attached to your nose
            tube.

The water is like a mirror
            reflecting back
                        how we
                               did it.

            I would walk.
            You would sit.

I still wave, because I do see you on that
            bench, and so what
                that you are no
                       longer there.

            Do we require that love be
            visible to know its real?
             
            And courage...courage is never
                        something you can
                            touch.

 

           
Only after writing this poem,
did I realize it was your birthday.

June 10, 2011
Brookline, Mass.