My father’s face is not a poem:

his large, spectacled moon now obscured by clouds.

After three quarters of a century we buried him

when he left us suddenly, slack in his chair.

 

His large, spectacled moon now obscured by clouds,

he only wanted to forever rest his eyes in repose.

He left us suddenly, slack in his chair,

ensconced by Concord grapes, rhubarb and worry:

 

he only wanted to forever rest his eyes in repose.

Imaginary conversations were his forte,

ensconced by Concord grapes, rhubarb and worry.

Other people’s newspapers and bank lobbies were his second home.

 

Imaginary conversations his forte,

his crimes both felonious and simple neglect,

and other people’s newspapers and bank lobbies his second home.

His face is his mother’s face is his sister’s face is my face

 

in the mirror, wide Slavic cheekbones and suspicious eyes.

After three quarters of a century we buried him,

his face his mother’s face his sister’s face is my face.

My father’s face is not a poem.