The ash on my shoes isn’t mine
To begin with, or ever.
The wispy remains of smoke aren’t mine
To breathe in, to taste.
The twisted metal isn’t of my roof or car
To plan to fix.
The hug your mother gave me, isn’t mine.
She would have hugged anything
Warm, soft
And issuing empty condolences
made music
with a muffled sob,
The dirge that isn’t mine,
But a son’s
As it should
Whose shoulders are kind
And give in to a pat,
And feel damp,
And frail,
But relaxed.
I want to know
But I can’t ask
Did you call him
Pop?
Maybe Dad. Or Sir.
Certainly you cried
If he hit you,
Yet when he died
Did you
Remember the days he held the handles
And you learned on two wheels?
Or when he let you drive
At fourteen around that one empty lot?
Or did you forget?
And let the sadness melt
Into relief.
Among the rubble,
The skeleton of his .44 Magnum
Lies impotent
And bent
But you grasp its once wooden grip
And twirl it for your friends.