Dad would have turned
ninety nine this year.
Days spent with Dad
in his later years
always felt
like we were cruising
above the clouds—
where rain and thunder
didn’t exist.
Dad, How do I
put you back in my life—
me 7 years old
sharing Friday Night Fights
with you,
our favorite
Floyd Patterson
throwing jabs?
Who knew you’d be floored
by your heart’s own
haymaker?
How can I not think of you
this morning, your scent
of Old Spice
inexplicably
hanging sweet
in the air?
Seven years old again,
I watch you shave,
Gillette razor in hand, light
splashed on your face.
