Raising his head
to the afternoon,
a touch
of life
smiled upon one more day,
I give with my embrace,
time
to see
my father sit
beside me.

My hands move 
over
shoulder blades,
distended
plantive points,
angles of his disillusion
drawn taunt
over 
waste and prostration,
jaundiced laughter,

and silence.
My hands move
hushed
along
bone
of my backbone,
massaging memories
to circulate lingering
recollections
too hard to bare
in the daylight.

The hour wanes
and there waits
my rocking chair.

Lie back
down
upon your pillow
my father's dreams
with a kiss,

and Satchmo's sweetness
whispering softly
in your ear.
 

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