In my shaking hands, you shake, you
teeter the spoonful of soup to your mouth,
you, dogged against that turbulence
coming out of your own arms, graceful
as you weave around the table, sink the eight
(flailingly accurate when I least want you to be)
and end the tournament, you with the genes
I may carry eighty years or so, too, dancing
along the circuitry of my intention, explaining
nothing of that advantage, my hesitating hold.

Just a shake away, you, in your beautiful beard,
in your last house, watch birds light and linger,
and hear the waterfront rush just there, beyond
the property line (and the highway, you sweet fool),
you tell me that we won’t be rattled apart
by any thunder inside or out, and I stay to listen
nearer now, in case you admit you stayed away too long.

--in memoriam, HB (1917-2002)

Published by Pif Magazine.