They are a busy lot, the dead.
They show up in darkened cities or work
or at my son’s high school cafeteria.
Years after his bad heart, arteries
silted, vast stretches of muscle
scarred and barren, finally quit—my father
wears a lime green polo shirt
his glasses held together by scotch tape.
He carries his bowling bag,
not as if it contained sins–
his vodka martinis
his string of one night stands
–but his blue marbled bowling ball
a little like Earth from space
except for three insistent finger holes
that say this is not a metaphor.
He seems pleased enough to see me.
I can’t think of what to say.
He is not about me. He never was.