Connecticut Dawn

The morning my father died,
He woke before dawn,
Attempting to start his final day
As he did all of the others:
With the quotidian copy of
The Hartford Courant,
Clipped securely to
A lap board instead of laid
Out on the breakfast table.

He used to liken our bodies
To that spread, “Look at you,
Laid out like a warm breakfast,”
As we poured ourselves onto
The floor like syrup, at his feet,
Onto pillow pancakes,
Our chins perched atop
The heels of our tiny hands
To better view
The Wonderful World of Disney
Or
The New England Patriots.

During such TV enterprises
He’d often fall asleep himself, an
Uneasy sight, his mouth agape
And his lungs rattling him
Gratefully awake. Who would take care
Of this large world while he sleeps?
Who would ensure that Steve Grogan
Would connect with his receivers?

This morning we’re out of season,
His work done: Tom Brady has
Long taken over, two foreign wars
Have been fought, maybe won,
Seven children educated. Somehow
No circle or square of the Word
Jumble lay vacant, his pencil
Scribbles legible by all who
Love him, long for him;
We kiss his waxy cheek,
Turn away to hide our human selves
And find another way
To make ourselves useful.