(in memory of my father)

i swim in the sea 
of weeds that succeed
in surrounding
this post-bellum abode

mold on the molding
fascia old with it

the fold of the door
gnawed by mice
fat in the absence of rats

failing to do 
what should be done,
like the porch
i abandon to a random swarm.
i try not to give in
to some alarm waiting 
to go off

though not a farmer
you are some old farmer
from wendell berry
who weary in your chair
stopped rocking and 
in your unarmed manner
sparked our last conversation

you, like a play’s soothsayer,
foretold everything you saw
whatever you saw

how did you know 
what i did not know:
the next afternoon
you’d be dead in my arms

but that was not the end
only the start  
of our two-score talk,
the little you said 
was about all that was said

life has the genius 
of wheels that spin happiness
out until there’s an accident
but in accidents and incidents
you learn to simply go on

be a servant to others
being your own servant
is like those guys in space
at zero G, it makes you free
but for what,
do the hard work of gravity