Grey-muzzled dog sprawls on floor,
well-worn furniture, well-used mess.
All surfaces shrouded with books:
gnostic scriptures, Jesus, wild hope.
giving away early geography.
There is more in what he speaks.
It is how he says her name.
Over and over, again and again,
with such solid adoration,
such evocative presence.
Yet no wedding ring.
It is the stale air he breathes at his pillow,
the morning coffee he no longer makes.
It is the socks no longer twinned,
It is the specter of his gone father,
with all that he left unlived.
It is how their daughter grieves gracefully,
while he ambles in his awkward, intent way.
It is his own skin and his own bones
It is obvious now, how it hangs on him
like a mourner’s suit coat, wrinkled,
tight in the middle, sagging at the shoulder.
He will pack up this cluttered house and move away.
A full-time parish exchanged for a part-time country one.
It is the chance to realize one persistent dream
with the passing of one three decades long.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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