Thursday, August 18, 2011

A poem for my late father


“It’s not mine.
It’s nothing to do with me.”

The shoes on the bed, the socks on the floor
They’re nothing to do with me.

I entered his room, the best in the place
It’s nothing to do with me.

His pills on the tray, his teeth in the sink
It’s nothing to do with me.

His glasses they sat,  the worse for his wear
It’s nothing to do with me.
 
His pants they remained on the foot of his bed
It’s nothing to do with me.

Muffin and coffee beginning to cool
It’s nothing to do with me.

The staff was aware; they’d begged and cajoled
It’s nothing to do with me.


Hearing aids found, they’d been useless before
It’s nothing to do with me.

His garden was gone, his home it was sold
It’s nothing to do with me.

My dad was distraught, his room unfamiliar
It’s nothing to do with me.

The room it was private; the paintings were his
It’s nothing to do with me.

Photos on the wall, your mommy and dad
It’s nothing to do with me.

Undressed and alone, without socks or his shoes
It’s nothing to do with me.

A daughter can handle
Most things she is thrown
It’s everything to do with me.

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