I will rummage
through the attic,
rip open boxes,
sift through papers
you touched
with pen,
find photographs
of you
on some cold,
pine cloaked coast
standing on rocks,
smiling
in that quiet, old
Yankee way.
I really
don't know
who you were,
white haired man,
eyes mucus-glued shut,
flat on back
in hospital bed
where she held you back,
wouldn't let you go,
air tinged with
feces, farts, and urine,
skin Andy Warhol white.
Who, exactly, were you?
I wish I knew. There was a time,
but I didn't take it,
let it be wind-blown
like pocket lint
rolling across
grass.
Now,
I will never
know, you are
too far gone
mute like the gray sea,
brain battered
by disease.
Do I love you?
Do I hate you?
Perhaps, I should have
seized the moment,
asked you,
how does September sun
feel on your face?
