Like a River

After Roberta died,
I talked to Paul,
at 80

playing tennis
like a fit
45 year old,
loving life with his
new girlfriend,
gliding
through streets
in shiny, black
limousines,
happier than Dad
could ever
be.
Paul lived
the Dream,
while Dad
tumbled drunk
into sunset,
sad,
morose,
broken.
Once,
Dad had it all -
laughter,
love,
Straight-A
student.

Why couldn't
he deal
with the ideal
accepted
like a Disney
dream?
Paul asked this,
but what destroyed
Dad
was like asking,
who killed Jesus?
I know, but I don't,
and neither did
Paul,
old family friend
from their days
of dreaming,
our conversation flowed
serpentine,
river 'round oxbow,
gradually

becoming
the sea.