The liquid cannot be thicker than applesauce

nor cream of wheat thin, nurse said

checking her watch.  Don’t we always taste

this stew of vegetables and tubers

when seconds tick as hollow respirators—

air, mucusy, invading sinuses like a cream base.

 

My family at its best when he visits, cane in hand

avalanche of soda crackers from pockets:

help him to the bathroom, peel sports page back

from snoring fingertips, “Ballgame’s over Poppy!”

Long lashes blanket grandpa’s soft sleep:

dreams of Philadelphia, dreams of May (his wife, not the month),

a war-time menorah burnt down to a wick in oil,

the goodnight wave of a ship’s velvet sail.

 

Goodnight son, father, grandfather, great-grandfather,

friend, husband—his years like tree rings spreading outward

into the forest.  Rain again today.  The soil: dark, regenerative,

solemn.  It is ready with patient enthusiasm, like the man himself,

to accept this peaceful spirit remembered by all.