My father died
Tied by tubes
Ringing about him and criss-crossing from the oxygen in the next room.
He went surrounded by law school diplomas, tigers punched into copper, and
 		  bawdy statuary.
His last letters were to Lilian Vernon and Hanover House
For two-story squeegees, mailbox alerts, and plastic talking skulls.
The clothes in his walk-in closet had gone unworn for months,
His garish collection, to him like Vermeers and Van Goghs.
He stayed in his bathrobe, building up stains.
He coughed, rested, coughed, then slept.
The Florida sun beat down steadily
On White Sabal Palm Lane,
Until, at his funeral,
Standing beside his plain casket, lid down,
My mom gave me his St. John's University Law School ring.


7/22/99

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