Elegy in Three Parts

1

Driving down the hill

with a load of garbage in back, he drives the curves

too fast—me nervous from coffee

and a hangover. But he’s driven it before,

and he’s talking about a friend

who lost his wife in less than a month

because of cancer. Dad, admitting he’d be lost.

Back home, resting on the porch, my hand went to his shoulder,

“Take it easy, dad, I can do the work.”

He knew I loved him.

2

The doctor said

he was gone

before he hit the ground—

reaching up—I later figured out

to fix a hole in the roof where yellow jackets swarmed.

He looked shot. Flat on his back, staring up

straight at the sun, blue as a shirt.

We tried. I pounded

on his chest and put my mouth to his

while mom made the call.

His beard was rough,

vomit came.

She talked me on,

but I kept hearing his voice

inside my head,

“Give it up, Tom, give it up.”

3

I have his anger and looks. Now

I’ve got this other stuff, too…

his hat from work,

these gloves and boots.

Oh sure, he got drunk and fell

in the fire one night. I’ve done that.

Hell, sometimes I forget to shift

the hill

coming home,

or if I’m wearing

all my clothes or not.

Maybe that’s what it’s like.