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A Poem for My Dad
One year later.
If I Were a Bell If I were a bell Was the song playing When my father died The machines turned off The lights dimmed I held his hand There are so many ways to have died Like Crispin Glover’s hand In Hot Tub Time Machine, it’s coming off Sooner or later, the bell Finally ringing, the credits playing Us watching as his breath dimmed The monitors dimmed My father died With only Miles Davis playing One hand on his trumpet one hand Ringing the bell And my father was off If I were a bell If I were a bell If I were a bell I’d be ringing
It’s not a sestina but it’s not not a sestina. It’s sestina-ish. My dad loved Crispin Glover. Who doesn’t?
Today is the year anniversary of my father’s death. He loved poems, and he loved when I wrote poems, even when they weren’t very good. He was very proud of me as a novelist, but I think if I’d really been a poet, professionally so, he would have liked that even more.
A friend of mine whose mother just died said, it would never have been enough time. That’s exactly how I feel. It wasn’t enough, but it would never have been enough.