Travelling and Waiting
“Pretty much” I reply, noticing
but not commenting on the
loud irony of his question.
Late afternoon, sun streaming in
making every thing gold and warm
and strangely safe.
An old man on the couch who has stopped trying
to pretend that he wants supper
that he will sleep soundly tonight
that the golf on TV is important
that tomorrow will be better
that he remembers my name
Decades dissolve into the tenderness of just touching his hand
My father is here. We are both here.
But also far from here
Travelling along that golden light
To the place where we stop waiting
And he moves on ahead.